January 4, 1819
1:00 p.m.
Winchelsea, Sussex
Henry Brougham’s desk was a mountain of correspondence as great as the snowdrifts outside his window. Letters from city aldermen documenting the hunger and misery caused by the price of bread this winter, kept artificially high by the Corn Law. Letters from teachers whose experience was helping to shape Brougham’s ideas for nationwide education reform. A letter from a traveler in Lisbon informing him of preparations for a constitutional convention early this year. And, most importantly, letters relating to the planning of what Margaret fully intended to be the most sumptuous and spectacular wedding their means made possible.
And here, for some reason, was a letter from Viscount Sidmouth, the Home Secretary. As one of the most reactionary members of a conservative cabinet, Sidmouth was neither a political nor a personal friend. So what was he writing about?
On closer examination, he was writing to advise Brougham not to invite Caroline of Brunswick to his wedding. It seemed that after her visit in October, the Cabinet had decided that the next time the Prince Regent’s wife set foot in this country, Prinny would begin divorce proceedings against her forthwith. Of course, Sidmouth wrote, you will not wish to expose her to humiliation and scorn…
Brougham chuckled to himself. Did this over-promoted tax collector really think he could pull off a bluff like that? According to British law, there could be no divorce without either confession or proof of adultery, and if Prinny or his lackeys had such proof, they would already have announced it with great fanfare. (Proving Prinny himself had committed adultery — many, many times — would of course be very easy to do, but that wasn’t quite what they had in mind, was it?)
In any event, he could hardly neglect to invite Charlotte Augusta’s mother. Brougham had seen the young princess angry once before, and once was plenty. Margaret wouldn’t be happy about it either.
And yet… it might be a better idea, from a political standpoint, to keep Caroline out of the country a little longer. As of now, Prinny was an embarrassment to the Tories and an object of contempt to everyone else. The longer his wife remained abroad, the longer the public could continue to imagine her as an ideal figure of virtuous, persecuted womanhood. As a person, she was likelier to be a liability than anything else, but as a symbol…
This was assuming, of course, that the D’Issy Commission would be as big a failure as the “Delicate Investigation.” (Had that really been twelve — no, thirteen years ago? Prinny’s war on his wife had gone on for so long…) Even if Caroline slipped up and let the Commission find proof of her guilt, the public might forgive her, given how shabbily she had been treated by her husband. It would, of course, be the end of any hope for a Queen Caroline in a position of power and influence, but her daughter would still be unscathed. More importantly, none of this would reflect badly on one Henry Brougham, who would gain credit for having been loyal to her for as long as reasonably possible.
And if (which was more likely) the Commission brought forward a farrago of rumours and circumstantial evidence and tried to call it proof, that would be splendid. They would disgrace themselves and discredit the whole Tory establishment. The people of this nation had a positive horror of libel and slander, particularly directed against a woman.
All this went through Brougham’s mind in the time it took him to set down Sidmouth’s letter and pick up a fresh piece of paper to write the invitation.