He called her name again and again, but she was in a deep faint.

What could he do? He daren’t call a doctor who might recognize her. It was so widely known that she was the Prince’s mistress. The story would be all over the town by morning.

He bent over her. ‘Anne,’ he cried urgently. ‘You must rouse yourself. I must get you out of here.’

But still she did not answer.

He sat on the bed watching her. He saw the pleasant position he had made for himself at Court lost for ever. What would the Queen say when she heard? It was not that she would be shocked, but how could she keep close to her a man who had been involved in such a scandal?

‘Anne!’ His voice rose on a note of shrill joy, for she had opened her eyes. ‘Oh, Anne ... thank God you’re alive.’

‘I ... feel so weak,’ she said.

‘I know ... I know ... but we must get you out of here.’

‘Get a hot napkin and put it on my stomach. I’m shivering.’

It was true. He could hear her teeth chattering.

He hurried away and found napkins which he warmed; he brought them to her but she started to twitch again and he called out in his agony of fear.

‘What do you need?’ he cried. ‘What can I get?’ Have you gold powder?’

He brought it and she swallowed it.

‘That’s ... a little better,’ she said.

‘You must get up. You must get dressed. We must somehow get you back to your house.’

But she shook her head and closed her eyes.

‘Come, Anne,’ he said. ‘You must try to rouse yourself. You must not be found here. It will be the end of you ... the end of us both ... if you are.’

But she did not seem to take in what he said.

He managed to lift her out of the bed; he sat her in a chair and began to dress her. She was limp and unable to help him, but after a great deal of fumbling he had her dressed. She swayed as he made her stand, but he was feeling better now. He managed to get her out of the house and half carry her some little distance away.

Good luck was with him, for he found a Sedan and setting her in it paid the chairmen handsomely to take her back to her house.

‘The lady had been taken ill,’ he said.

The chairmen replied that they would see that she arrived safely.

Hervey went back to his bedroom, threw himself on the bed, and discovered that he himself was on the verge of collapse.

The King’s birthday, the 10th November, must be celebrated at St James’s and a round of festivities began.

Caroline, whose health had been growing steadily worse over the last months, felt the strain badly, yet she dared not complain to the King.

Hervey was constantly at her side. He had quickly recovered from the shock of what had happened in his apartments when he saw Anne Vane going about her everyday concerns as though nothing had happened. They never spoke to each other publicly, keeping up the pretence that they were enemies all of which added to the piquancy of their affair. She came again to his lodgings and told him that she had had such attacks before—colics, she called them. She recovered, and after a day’s rest was perfectly well.

From then on the fear that she might die in his bed was an added fillip to his feelings for her and they went on meeting as frequently as ever.

In spite of his cynical attitude to the world, Hervey had a certain feeling for the Queen; and when he saw her looking so ill he ventured to remonstrate with her while he asked himself whether he was really concerned for her health or the effect her illness or death might have on his fortunes. His great virtue, he assured himself, was his determination to be frank with himself.

‘These birthday celebrations fatigue you greatly, Madam,’ he told her.

‘They will soon be over.’

‘Should you not explain to His Majesty that you need to rest?’

‘My lord, what are you thinking of? You know His Majesty’s attitude to illness. He hates it, and there are some things which he hates so much that the only way he can tolerate them is by pretending they don’t exist.’

‘That, Madam, is a state of mind which cannot exist permanently.’

‘You love your illnesses, my lord.’

‘I respect them. That is why I am constantly at your side instead of languishing in my bed.’

‘I have been twice blooded recently.’

‘All the more reason why you should rest, Madam.’

‘Pray don’t scold. I have known the King when he has been ill, get up from his bed, dress for a levee, conduct it, and when it is over return to bed, hiding from all but his most intimate servants the fact that he was ill.’

‘It is not Your Majesty’s custom to follow His Majesty’s follies.’

‘Hush, you young idiot.’

‘A most devoted, and at this moment, anxious idiot, Madam.’

‘Oh, come, come. You indulge me! ‘

‘Would I might do that.’

You please me enough with your tongue, my lord.’

Then I will make further use of my privilege and say that no member of your family, Madam, will ever admit to being ill ... nor acknowledge illness in others.’

‘If that is all our subjects will have to complain of us we shall be fortunate.’

‘I complain now, Madam, most bitterly.’

‘But you, my child, love illness, you pamper it, you study it, you revel in it. We merely spurn it and drive it away.’

‘We shall see, Madam, whose method is wiser.’

‘I hope not, my lord. I hope not for a long time.’

Sir Robert Walpole, himself suffering from the flying gout, was loath to attend any of the birthday celebrations; he was longing for the quiet of Norfolk where Maria and their daughter would be with him.

Twice a year he holidayed there and he was beginning to think that those two holidays were the best times of his year. Why did he go on fighting a cruel Opposition, a foolish King, and a Queen whom he respected but of late had seemed to be against him?

He allotted himself twenty days in November—twenty days of peace with Maria in his cherished Houghton among his treasures. All his treasures, he told himself with a rare sentimentality.

He looked back on a hard time. It had been particularly difficult keeping England out of war and the elections had not gone very well for him. He was still in power but with a reduced majority.

He must, he supposed, put in an appearance at the King’s celebrations otherwise there would be complaints against le gros homme. One had to placate the little man all the time.

He dressed with reluctance and presented himself at the Queen’s drawing room.

As he made his way to her side he was shocked by her appearance.

She’s a sick woman, he thought. Why does she not admit it? Doesn’t little George see. Of course not! When did he ever see what he didn’t want to?

‘Madam,’ he said, as he kissed her hand, ‘I have come to pay my respects and to tell you I shall shortly be leaving for Houghton.’

‘My poor Sir Robert, you are in need of a holiday.’ She swayed a little.

‘Madam ... you are not well.’

‘I was blooded twice recently. It takes a little time to recover.’

She is going to faint, he thought.

He caught Lord Hervey’s eye and he knew that Hervey understood. ‘Your Majesty should be resting,’ said Walpole. ‘Perhaps Lord Hervey would ask His Majesty if he would retire so that the Queen can go to her bed and rest a while.’

The Queen was about to protest, but Hervey did not wait. He went to the King and surprisingly George must, too, have been aware of his wife’s wan looks for he made no protests, but for once ignoring sacred time he retired to his apartments, leaving the Queen free to do the same.