Lies, Damned Lies, and History(7)

On the other hand, she was her own worst enemy. Wheeling about, scattering members of the crowd who’d closed in behind her, she set off again. For Westminster Hall this time, the site of the coronation banquet and where, despite the earliness of the hour, a good number of guests were already assembled.

And this was where it stopped being funny and suddenly became serious. This was England. You can’t buck the Establishment. You can’t do it now and you certainly couldn’t do it in 1821. It may be old, fuddy-duddy, self-serving, and self-perpetuating – well, actually, it is old, fuddy-duddy, etc., but it’s the seat of power in this country. It moves as fast as an arthritic glacier, but it doesn’t need speed. The Establishment simply reaches out and slowly, inexorably, crushes everything in its path. Inconvenient princesses do not cause it any sort of problem at all, and never have. An order was shouted. Soldiers stepped up and suddenly, everything went very quiet and very still.

They held bayonets to her face. And they meant it. Just for once, she stood stock-still in disbelief, sweat running through the paint on her face, and her hair dishevelled. The hem of her skirts and her little soft shoes were stained with dust and horseshit. Dark patches showed under her arms. We could clearly hear her panting in the sudden silence.

I felt so sorry for her, but on the other hand, she seemed to have no problem making a public spectacle of herself, and her voice could topple buildings. She definitely wasn’t happy. And she hadn’t given up.

We couldn’t see the next bit because everyone else was surging about trying to get a good view, but I know that she ignored them all, still trying to force her way in. Her voice, shrill with hysteria, her German accent thicker by the moment, carried clearly to those of us who couldn’t get close enough to see. The crowd’s good will was beginning to fade and the whole thing looked like deteriorating into a public brawl, when the deputy Lord Chamberlain solved everyone’s problems and once again, the doors were slammed in her face.

You’d think she would give up, wouldn’t you?

Still nothing daunted, she picked up her skirts and ran again – again showing vast amounts of unattractive ankle and leg – back to the Abbey door in Poets Corner. Markham and I, knowing where she would go next, had already set off, and were in place when she turned up, purple-faced with the effort, her bosom escaping from her dress. She was followed by a jeering crowd who, although accustomed over the years to their royal family making arses of themselves in public, were not impressed at this very unroyal display. Caroline had crossed a line.

I felt for her, awful though she was. She’d been publicly humiliated in front of all London. This story would fly around all Europe. If she had lived, she would have been a laughing stock wherever she went.

Except she wouldn’t. Tonight – this very night – she would fall ill. No one was ever sure quite what ailment she was suffering from, but in three weeks, she would be dead. She would claim that at some point today, she’d been poisoned, and interestingly, her deathbed would be very closely observed by a man named Stephen Lushington, who was in the pay of Lord Liverpool, the prime minister of the day. The really sad thing was that she might well have been murdered. We’ll never know, and at the time, no one cared.

But now, in front of me, Sir Robert Inglis was quietly attempting to persuade Caroline to leave.

I began to ease my way through the crowd. Because there was something I wanted to see. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the princess. She was clasping both hands to her massive bosom, struggling to catch her breath. It was very apparent that she was never going to be allowed inside the Abbey. Sir Robert was speaking very politely and calmly, and while the prize-fighters and slammed doors had only made her more determined to gain entry, his respectful persuasion was beginning to have some effect on her.

But what had caught my attention was a small smear of bright red blood on the back of her white glove. It was tiny. You could barely see it. It might not even be her blood. She could easily have brushed against someone. Or someone brushed against her. But suppose it was her blood. And tonight she would fall ill. And in three weeks, this inconvenient princess would be dead.

I don’t know what Sir Robert said to her. Perhaps she was already beginning to feel unwell. The fight went out of her. I saw her shoulders slump. Even the feathers in her headdress were drooping. Three rough-looking pageboys led her quietly past the jeering people, and she heaved into her carriage. Defiant to the end, she waved to the unimpressed crowd, and was driven away.

I couldn’t help recalling an unkind verse that circulated about her.