The Return of the Queen (3)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
I apologize for the long delay (again).
Now, let's add a little something to thicken the plot…
April 14, 1820
8:15 p.m.
Winchelsea
In one week, the new Parliament would meet. Liverpool’s majority had been reduced, but was still there.
Henry Brougham had not been expecting visitors today. He and his wife had nearly finished packing for the trip to London when Samuel Whitbread had shown up at their doorstep, quite unannounced. Nonetheless, they had been able to treat him to a respectable dinner.
Now, Brougham and Whitbread were in the drawing-room.
“Again I apologize for presuming upon your hospitality in this fashion,” said Whitbread, “but there is a matter in which I desperately need your wisdom. I would have written you a letter, but I thought it would be best if neither of us were the source of any… potentially incriminating correspondence.”
Brougham leaned forward in his chair. “You have my full attention,” he said. “Pray continue.”
“Recently I received a letter from a well-informed source in France,” said Whitbread. “It contains most disturbing allegations against men in the highest levels of government, and against the royal family itself.”
“Who is this source?”
“Talleyrand-Périgord.”
Brougham was silent for a moment. The number of living men whose intellects he considered equal to his own could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Talleyrand happened to be one of them.
Whitbread reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. “I have it here,” he said. “Would you care to read it?”
“By all means,” said Brougham. He took the letter and held it up to the lamp.
The handwriting was not elegant, but workmanlike and legible. It had been some time since Brougham had read anything in French, but after a few sentences the old lessons came back to him.
“Disturbing” was a very mild word for what Talleyrand alleged. He charged that the King, his brothers the Dukes of York, Clarence and Cumberland, the Prime Minister, Castlereagh, Sidmouth and other prominent Conservatives were plotting to remove Charlotte Augusta from the line of succession in favor of her infant cousin Victor Alexander. More than that, the letter claimed that they had previously tried to assassinate her in the guise of medical care, and that Sir Richard Croft had been their agent in this matter. Talleyrand offered no proof for any of this, but claimed to have sources deep within the ranks of the government.
“What do you make of it?” said Whitbread at last.
“First, to state the obvious — without proof, these are actionable libels that we daren’t repeat to anyone… at least, not in such a way that they could be traced back to us.
“Now having said so much, three questions come to mind. Imprimis, why did he write this letter and address it to you? Secundus, is any of this true? Tertius, what ought we to do about it?”
“I should say your second question is the most important of the three,” said Whitbread.
“Very well; whatever else may be true or false, I do not believe there was ever a plot to murder Her Highness. Given how many men and women die under the care of doctors with the best of intentions, it seems to me that if Croft had truly aimed at her death, she would not today be among the living.”
“But as Talleyrand says, her Highness did have two miscarriages under Croft’s care and two healthy births under Stockmar’s. Do you think this a coincidence?”
“I think I know who I want caring for my Margaret in her confinement,” said Brougham. “Croft may be a bungler, but I do not believe him a murderer. And consider — at the time the miscarriages you speak of occurred, she was the sole legitimate heir in her generation. No conspiracy involving the royal family would dare jeopardize the dynasty by doing her in or by tampering with her powers of parturition.
“More importantly, remember one who did die on Croft’s hands — Louis of France, the one man whom all these alleged conspirators would have wished a long and happy life. With his death, all Castlereagh’s plans came crashing down in ruin.”
“Then you believe Talleyrand a liar.” Whitbread sounded strangely disappointed.
“I believe him clever, ruthless and motivated by his own interest and that of France, in that precise order,” said Brougham. “We have already seen in the Netherlands his willingness to meddle in the affairs of other nations. Too often the Tories have accused us of being naïve in our understanding of the French — let us not prove them right.”
“But what if he is telling us the truth?”
“The charge that the king and his ministers plan to disinherit Her Highness — that much at least may be true, although it would be a very bold move on their part and I cannot imagine how they would go about it,” said Brougham. “Talleyrand may have included it to lend credibility to his other claim… in which case we may expect to see this plan put into motion before very long.”
“We cannot possibly let them do that!” said Whitbread. “It would be a disaster. We must warn the people.”
“An anonymous leaflet, perhaps,” said Brougham. “Published under a pseudonym — ‘Junius Secundus,’ perhaps, or ‘Junius Junior.’” He chuckled at his own little joke. “If the charge is false, no real harm will be done, as no one will believe it who was not already disposed to think the worst of the Tories. If the conspiracy exists, then publicizing it anywhere is likely to scupper it… and to set the king and his ministers wondering which of them let the secret out.”
“Easily done,” said Whitbread.
“Yes, but this may be a trap,” said Brougham. “If you were to write such a broadside, the next missive from Talleyrand might read: ‘Howsoever you try to disguise yourself, Junius Secundus, the fact remains that the allegations in that leaflet could have come from no one but myself, and I dispatched them to no one but you. Therefore, unless you wish to be exposed as a libellist and the agent of a foreign power, you are my man in London henceforth and for ever.’” By the look on Whitbread’s face, he hadn’t thought of this at all.
“Then… what do you suggest?”
“This letter came to you. The decision rests with you.”
Whitbread sat in thought for a long moment. Finally he said, “I will sooner risk my own ruin than the ruin of the people. I will publish it anonymously and see what comes of it. Whatever happens, dear Henry, I promise you will be held blameless.”
Damned right I will, thought Brougham. “Thank you, Samuel,” he said.
So, Brougham thought to himself later, Talleyrand is putting in his oar… and on our side of the boat. What mischief is he up to? Well, whatever it is, I’m certainly not going to abandon the cause of reform for fear of serving his purpose. But if he thinks he can make me a pawn in his game, he is very much mistaken.
Suddenly, Brougham was looking forward to the next session of Parliament. At last he had a worthy adversary.
Now, let's add a little something to thicken the plot…
April 14, 1820
8:15 p.m.
Winchelsea
In one week, the new Parliament would meet. Liverpool’s majority had been reduced, but was still there.
Henry Brougham had not been expecting visitors today. He and his wife had nearly finished packing for the trip to London when Samuel Whitbread had shown up at their doorstep, quite unannounced. Nonetheless, they had been able to treat him to a respectable dinner.
Now, Brougham and Whitbread were in the drawing-room.
“Again I apologize for presuming upon your hospitality in this fashion,” said Whitbread, “but there is a matter in which I desperately need your wisdom. I would have written you a letter, but I thought it would be best if neither of us were the source of any… potentially incriminating correspondence.”
Brougham leaned forward in his chair. “You have my full attention,” he said. “Pray continue.”
“Recently I received a letter from a well-informed source in France,” said Whitbread. “It contains most disturbing allegations against men in the highest levels of government, and against the royal family itself.”
“Who is this source?”
“Talleyrand-Périgord.”
Brougham was silent for a moment. The number of living men whose intellects he considered equal to his own could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Talleyrand happened to be one of them.
Whitbread reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. “I have it here,” he said. “Would you care to read it?”
“By all means,” said Brougham. He took the letter and held it up to the lamp.
The handwriting was not elegant, but workmanlike and legible. It had been some time since Brougham had read anything in French, but after a few sentences the old lessons came back to him.
“Disturbing” was a very mild word for what Talleyrand alleged. He charged that the King, his brothers the Dukes of York, Clarence and Cumberland, the Prime Minister, Castlereagh, Sidmouth and other prominent Conservatives were plotting to remove Charlotte Augusta from the line of succession in favor of her infant cousin Victor Alexander. More than that, the letter claimed that they had previously tried to assassinate her in the guise of medical care, and that Sir Richard Croft had been their agent in this matter. Talleyrand offered no proof for any of this, but claimed to have sources deep within the ranks of the government.
“What do you make of it?” said Whitbread at last.
“First, to state the obvious — without proof, these are actionable libels that we daren’t repeat to anyone… at least, not in such a way that they could be traced back to us.
“Now having said so much, three questions come to mind. Imprimis, why did he write this letter and address it to you? Secundus, is any of this true? Tertius, what ought we to do about it?”
“I should say your second question is the most important of the three,” said Whitbread.
“Very well; whatever else may be true or false, I do not believe there was ever a plot to murder Her Highness. Given how many men and women die under the care of doctors with the best of intentions, it seems to me that if Croft had truly aimed at her death, she would not today be among the living.”
“But as Talleyrand says, her Highness did have two miscarriages under Croft’s care and two healthy births under Stockmar’s. Do you think this a coincidence?”
“I think I know who I want caring for my Margaret in her confinement,” said Brougham. “Croft may be a bungler, but I do not believe him a murderer. And consider — at the time the miscarriages you speak of occurred, she was the sole legitimate heir in her generation. No conspiracy involving the royal family would dare jeopardize the dynasty by doing her in or by tampering with her powers of parturition.
“More importantly, remember one who did die on Croft’s hands — Louis of France, the one man whom all these alleged conspirators would have wished a long and happy life. With his death, all Castlereagh’s plans came crashing down in ruin.”
“Then you believe Talleyrand a liar.” Whitbread sounded strangely disappointed.
“I believe him clever, ruthless and motivated by his own interest and that of France, in that precise order,” said Brougham. “We have already seen in the Netherlands his willingness to meddle in the affairs of other nations. Too often the Tories have accused us of being naïve in our understanding of the French — let us not prove them right.”
“But what if he is telling us the truth?”
“The charge that the king and his ministers plan to disinherit Her Highness — that much at least may be true, although it would be a very bold move on their part and I cannot imagine how they would go about it,” said Brougham. “Talleyrand may have included it to lend credibility to his other claim… in which case we may expect to see this plan put into motion before very long.”
“We cannot possibly let them do that!” said Whitbread. “It would be a disaster. We must warn the people.”
“An anonymous leaflet, perhaps,” said Brougham. “Published under a pseudonym — ‘Junius Secundus,’ perhaps, or ‘Junius Junior.’” He chuckled at his own little joke. “If the charge is false, no real harm will be done, as no one will believe it who was not already disposed to think the worst of the Tories. If the conspiracy exists, then publicizing it anywhere is likely to scupper it… and to set the king and his ministers wondering which of them let the secret out.”
“Easily done,” said Whitbread.
“Yes, but this may be a trap,” said Brougham. “If you were to write such a broadside, the next missive from Talleyrand might read: ‘Howsoever you try to disguise yourself, Junius Secundus, the fact remains that the allegations in that leaflet could have come from no one but myself, and I dispatched them to no one but you. Therefore, unless you wish to be exposed as a libellist and the agent of a foreign power, you are my man in London henceforth and for ever.’” By the look on Whitbread’s face, he hadn’t thought of this at all.
“Then… what do you suggest?”
“This letter came to you. The decision rests with you.”
Whitbread sat in thought for a long moment. Finally he said, “I will sooner risk my own ruin than the ruin of the people. I will publish it anonymously and see what comes of it. Whatever happens, dear Henry, I promise you will be held blameless.”
Damned right I will, thought Brougham. “Thank you, Samuel,” he said.
So, Brougham thought to himself later, Talleyrand is putting in his oar… and on our side of the boat. What mischief is he up to? Well, whatever it is, I’m certainly not going to abandon the cause of reform for fear of serving his purpose. But if he thinks he can make me a pawn in his game, he is very much mistaken.
Suddenly, Brougham was looking forward to the next session of Parliament. At last he had a worthy adversary.
