‘Nevertheless they must be awakened. I have important news.’

‘Sir Robert, the Prince is undressed. It is his practice at this hour ...’

‘I know His Highness’s practices, but I tell you there must be no delay. Tell him I have come. Tell him I have news of the utmost importance. Tell him I must see him without delay.’

The Duchess looked dubious; but Sir Robert clearly must be obeyed.

She lifted her shoulders slightly and leaving Walpole impatiently in the anteroom called to one of the Prince’s attendants and told him to awaken His Highness as Sir Robert Walpole was waiting to give him news which could not be delayed.

George Augustus sat up in bed; his first impulse was to look at the clock.

‘Vot is this,’ he shouted. ‘It is but three o’clock.’

‘Your Highness, Sir Robert Walpole is waiting to speak to you. He said it is a matter of the utmost importance.’

‘It should vait,’ snapped the Prince, always bad tempered to have a habit broken. ‘I haf not my sleep finished.’

‘Your Highness, Sir Robert was most insistent.’

‘Sir Robert!’ growled the Prince. He was not very pleased with that man. He had not done what he promised when he had attempted to patch up the quarrel between the Prince and his father. He had made slighting remarks about the Prince’s abilities to act as Regent. And such remarks had been carried back to His Highness by Sir Robert’s enemies. George Augustus was like his father in the fact that he never forgave a slight. ‘That man should take care ...’

‘Your Highness ...’

‘I know ... I know. I vill to him go. I vill to him tell I must not be disturbed at this hour.’

The Prince rose from his bed, picked up his wig which had been placed on a table nearby and crammed it on his head. His valet sprang forward but he waved him aside.

He stood in his underwear, a little man with a fresh complexion now ruddy from annoyance, his bulbous blue eyes blazing with anger.

His valet would have helped him into his breeches, but the Prince snatched them from him and it was at this moment that Walpole, who had determined to wait no longer, came into the room.

The bulging blue eyes glared at the minister, but Walpole had sunk to his knees, taken the hand which held the breeches and said: ‘Sire, your father, King George the First, is dead. You are now the King of England.’

‘Vot!’ cried George Augustus.

‘Your Majesty’s father is dead.’

‘That is von big lie!’

‘Indeed not, Your Majesty. I have a letter here from Lord Townshend. Your father, King George, has had a seizure and died on the way to Osnabrück.’

‘Let me see this!’ George Augustus snatched the letter and dropping his breeches held it with both hands.

‘Mein Gott,’ he whispered. ‘Then it is so!’

‘Your Majesty.’

The new King stared at Sir Robert without seeing him. Already there was a new arrogance, Walpole noticed. The transformation from powerless Prince, kept deliberately in the background by a father who despised him, to King of England, was taking place.

This one could be more difficult to handle than his father, thought Walpole.

‘As Your Majesty’s minister I would have your orders,’ said Walpole quietly; and he felt that the very clock on which the King set such store, not because it was a valuable piece, which it undoubtedly was, but because it registered all-important time, had stopped, waiting for what would happen next, for the following seconds could reveal whether the King would keep his father’s trusted minister.

The moment dragged on. What was going on behind the prominent blue eyes? Was the new King remembering past discrepancies? What had he, Walpole, said when, as Prince of Wales, George Augustus had sought the Regency during his father’s absence from England? ‘He doesn’t deserve it. We’ve done enough for him; and if it were to be done again we would not do so much.’ Such remarks were apt to be carried back, and these Guelphs were vindictive by nature. They never forgot a slight.

Walpole could see that the King was remembering.

It came: ‘My orders?’ he said. The blue eyes narrowed. His mind was ranging over his ministers and his choice fell on a favourite of his, Sir Spencer Compton. He shouted: ‘You vill go to Chiswick, Sir Robert, and take your orders from Sir Spencer Compton.’

Walpole bowed. This was the end. The verdict had been given. He was dismissed. He had been right to guess that the new King would want to settle old scores. Take his orders from Spencer Compton. It was an insult.

But there was nothing to do but bow himself out. The new King looked at the clock.

‘It is not time yet to rise, I vill finish my sleep,’ he said; and as Walpole made his way to Chiswick, the King went back to bed.

Charlotte Clayton, flushed scarlet, came into the Queen’s chamber.

‘Your Majesty!’ she cried.

Caroline was on her feet.

‘It’s true. I heard every word. The King died on his way to Osnabrück.’

‘Dead!’ whispered Caroline. Her eyes were brilliant. The tyrant removed. The way clear. ‘I must go to the ... to the King.’ She spoke the words triumphantly.

‘He has returned to bed, Your Majesty. The time for rising has not yet come.’

Charlotte was laughing at him. Never mind. It was ridiculous of him. He was a King and he went to bed to finish his nap!

She walked past the woman and into his bedchamber. He was certainly not sleeping.

‘I have heard.’

‘That you are Queen of England?’

‘That you are the King.’

He got out of bed. ‘Veil,’ he said, ‘that old rogue has gone at last. I thought never vould he die.’

‘And you, George Augustus, are now the King. That is von thing he cannot stop.’

‘He can stop nothing now ... the old scoundrel.’

‘Ve should be on our way to Leicester House. There vill be so much to do.’

‘I have dismissed that fat ox Valpole. He vill now know he has been von fool.’

Caroline was alarmed. Walpole may have abused her and her husband at times; he may not have kept his promises; but they needed brilliant men about them if they were to rule wisely and safely; and she believed Walpole to be the most astute politician of his day.

‘Dat is von pity,’ she declared.

‘Vot you say?’

‘He vill be your enemy.’

‘But I am the King now. It is not for me to fear men, but for them to fear me.’

‘He is clever.’

‘And I am von fool?’

She had gone too far. She would have to be even more careful now.

‘You vill be such a king as the English never have before had. They vill be vishing to see you now.’

He smiled at her. He was very fond of her. She was his good and docile wife. Occasionally he must reprove her for her tendency to instruct. But she was a good woman, a good wife; and she knew who was her master.

‘Then,’ he said, ‘together vill ye go. The King and the Queen.’

‘I must not forget,’ she said, ‘that I must be in mourning ... just a little. For ven there is a new king an old one must die.’

It was a warning to him. Accept your subjects’ homage, ties; but do not show too blatantly how delighted you are by your father’s death. It’s true that you are, but it might appear unseemly. Even the most cynical people honour the dead for fear there should be some truth in the belief that they sometimes return.

‘No,’ he said, ‘this you must not forget.’

She had made her point; now she would go to her apartments; her woman should dress her. In what? she wondered. Black bombazine. That would be discreet and black was becoming to her fair skin.

She would ride through the streets; the people would be pleased; these English were always pleased at the prospect of revels; and a new king meant a coronation.