The Duchess

  Seventy years later, on June 30, 1688, the fourth Earl of Devonshire joined with six other parliamentary notables (the Immortal Seven) and issued a secret invitation to William of Orange to come to England and take the throne from the Catholic James II. When William arrived the Earl personally toured the Midlands with his own militia and subdued the countryside around Derbyshire and Cheshire. He received a dukedom for his bravery, as did several of his Whig colleagues. It was not bigotry which had prompted the first Duke to act but political idealism; he, along with many other Whigs, had suspected King James of plotting to reduce the power of Parliament in order to establish an absolutist monarchy, similar to that enjoyed by his cousin Louis XIV in France. William’s acceptance of their offer of the crown, as well as the conditions imposed by Parliament, resulted in the establishment of the Revolution Settlement. This guaranteed the sovereignty of Parliament over a constitutional monarchy, and restricted the succession to royal members of the Protestant faith. Subsequent generations of Whigs revered the 1688 revolutionaries as the guardians of English liberty. They looked to the descendants of the Immortal Seven to maintain the Whig party and to keep its ideals alive.

  At first the fortunes of the party fluctuated as its leaders gained or lost favour at court, and factions fought for control. By 1714, however, the Whigs had crushed the rival Tory party and from then on they experienced little opposition except from disgruntled members within their own party. By the time the twenty-two-year-old George III ascended the throne in 1760 the same Whig families had been pulling the levers of power for over fifty years. The Duke’s family, known collectively as the Cavendishes (the Duke is always referred to by his title, the family by its surname), had been in power for so many years that political office seemed theirs by right; they and their supporters were entirely unprepared for their sudden disgrace. The new King’s first act was to dismiss the Whig cabinet. He had long regarded the Whig leaders as a cynical and corrupt rabble, and in their place he appointed his tutor, Lord Bute, to form a new government.

  The fourth Duke of Devonshire was among the casualties. Without warning the King removed him from his post as Lord Chamberlain and had his name scratched from the honorary Royal advisory group known as the Privy Council. After a lifetime spent serving the court this graceless demotion was an insult which the Duke would never forgive nor the party forget. When he died a few years later his sixteen-year-old son William (who was never referred to as anything except “the Duke”) inherited the quarrel and automatically became heir-presumptive to the leadership of the Whig party. But a contemporary politician, Nathaniel Wraxall, who knew him well, bemoaned the fact that the Whigs had to rely on a man so ill-suited to public life: “Constitutional apathy formed his distinguishing characteristic. His figure was tall and manly, though not animated or graceful, his manners, always calm and unruffled. He seemed to be incapable of any strong emotion, and destitute of all energy or activity of mind. As play became indispensable in order to arouse him from his lethargic habit, and to awaken his torpid faculties, he passed his evenings usually at Brooks’s, engaged at whist or faro.”40

  The Duke had had a lonely upbringing, which was reflected in his almost pathological reserve. One of his daughters later joked that their only means of communication was through her dog: “the whole of tea and again at supper, we talked of no one subject but the puppies. . . . I quite rejoice at having one in my possession, for it is never a failing method of calling his attention and attracting his notice.”41 However, behind the Duke’s wooden façade was an intelligent and well-educated mind. According to Wraxall, his friends regarded him as an expert on Shakespeare and the classics: “On all disputes that occasionally arose among the members of the club [Brooks’s] relative to passages of the Roman poets or historians, I know that appeal was commonly made to the Duke, and his decision or opinion was regarded as final.”42

  The Duke had barely known his mother, Lady Charlotte Boyle, who died when he was six. The fourth Duke had married her against his own mother’s wishes. There was no clear reason for the Duchess’s objection—she called it “an accursed match”—particularly since Lady Charlotte brought a vast fortune to the family, her father, the Earl of Burlington, having no heir. But the Duchess would have nothing more to do with her son; when he died ten years later she made no attempt to see her grandchildren. The fifth Duke, his two brothers Lords Richard and George, and sister Lady Dorothy were brought up in cold splendour in the care of their Cavendish uncles.

  Georgiana’s future husband was only sixteen when he came into an income that was twice Lord Spencer’s; by one account it amounted to more than £60,000 a year. His property included not only the magnificent Chatsworth in Derbyshire and Devonshire House in London, but five other estates of comparable grandeur: Lismore Castle in Ireland, Hardwick House and Bolton Abbey in Yorkshire, and Chiswick House and Burlington House in London. He was one of the most sought-after bachelors in London—although Mrs. Delany was mystified as to the reason why. “The Duke’s intimate friends say he has sense, and does not want merit,” she wrote. But in her opinion he was boring and gauche: “To be sure the jewell has not been well polished: had he fallen under the tuition of the late Lord Chesterfield he might have possessed les graces, but at present only that of his dukedom belongs to him.”43 As one newspaper delicately put it, “His Grace is an amiable and respectable character, but dancing is not his forte.”44

  Superficially, the Duke’s character seemed not unlike Lord Spencer’s: however, behind a shy exterior Georgiana’s father concealed strong feelings. One of his few surviving letters to Georgiana, written after her marriage, bears eloquent witness to his warm heart: “But indeed my Dearest Georgiana, I did not know till lately how much I loved you; I miss you every day and every hour.”45 The twenty-four-year-old Duke had no such hidden sweetness, although Georgiana thought he did. Knowing how awkward her father could be in public, she assumed that the Duke masked his true nature from all but his closest confidants. The fact that her parents treated him so respectfully also elevated the Duke in her eyes. The Spencers were extremely gratified by the interest he showed in their eldest daughter, and it did not escape Georgiana’s notice that she was being watched; she knew that her parents wanted her to succeed.

  By the end of summer, having danced with the Duke on several occasions and sat near him at numerous dinners, Georgiana had fallen in love with the idea of marrying him. His return home upset her greatly; she feared that he would make his choice before she was grown up. “I have not heard that the Duke of Devonshire is talked of for anybody,” her cousin reassured her after receiving an enquiry about a rumour linking him with Lady Betty Hamilton. “Indeed I have heard very little of him this Winter.”46 Lady Spencer, on the other hand, was relieved that the Duke had not made a formal offer. Even though there could be no more illustrious a match, she did not want her daughter to be a child-bride. Georgiana “is indeed a lovely young woman,” she confided to a friend, “very pleasing in her figure, but infinitely more so from her character and disposition; my dread is that she will be snatched from me before her age and experience make her by any means fit for the serious duties of a wife, a mother, or the mistress of a family.”47

  In fact the Duke had already made up his mind to marry Georgiana. She was an obvious choice: socially the Spencers were almost equal to the Cavendishes, she had a large dowry, she seemed likely to be popular, and, most important, she was young and malleable. Despite Lady Spencer’s reservations, discussions between the two families began in earnest while the Spencers were still abroad, and were concluded after they returned to England in the spring of 1774. By now Georgiana was almost seventeen and preparing to make her entrance into society. Hers was not to be an arranged marriage in the sense of those common a generation before.48 She was not exchanged in lieu of gambling debts, nor thrown in as part of a political alliance.* However, it cannot be said that Georgiana had been free to make a proper choice. Unlike her mother she had not been out for seve
ral seasons before her marriage, and she had not accepted the Duke because she loved him “above all men upon Earth.” She would go to any lengths to please her parents, and that included thinking herself in love with a man she hardly knew. But her happiness at his proposal convinced the Spencers that they were facilitating a love-match.

  As the marriage approached, Georgiana’s faults became an obsession with her mother, who feared that her daughter did not understand the responsibilities which would come with her new role as a society wife and political hostess: “I had flatter’d myself I should have had more time to have improv’d her understanding and, with God’s assistance to have strengthened her principles, and enabled her to avoid the many snares that vice and folly will throw in her way. She is amiable, innocent and benevolent, but she is giddy, idle and fond of dissipation.”49 Whenever they were apart, Lady Spencer criticized Georgiana’s behaviour in long letters filled with “hints to form your own conduct . . . when you are so near entering into a world abounding with dissipation, vice and folly.”50 In one, she included a list of rules governing a married woman’s behaviour on Sundays. Georgiana would have to rise early, pray, instruct the children or servants, then read an improving book, and above all “make it a rule to be among the first [to church], and to shew by my good humour and attention to everybody that I saw nothing in religion or a Sunday to make people silent, ill-bred or uncomfortable. . . .” Flirting and gossip were to be absolutely avoided on this day.51

  Most observers shared Lady Spencer’s disquiet, although not for the same reason.

  We drank tea in the Spring Gardens [recorded Mary Hamilton in her diary]: Lady Spencer and daughter, Lady Georgiana, and the Duke of Devonshire joined us: he walked between Lady Georgiana and I, we were very Chatty, but not one word spoke the Duke to his betrothed nor did one smile grace his dull visage.—Notwithstanding his rank and fortune I wd not marry him—they say he is sensible and has good qualities—it is a pity he is not more ostensibly agreeable, dear charming Lady Georgiana will not be well matched.52

  Mrs. Delany had come to a similar conclusion. She happened to be at a ball in May where Georgiana danced for so long that she fainted from the heat and the constriction of her dress—“Which of course made a little bustle,” she informed her friend. “His (philosophical) Grace was at the other end of the room and ask’d ‘what’s that?’ They told him and he replied with his usual demureness (alias dullness), ‘I thought the noise—was—among—the—women.’ ” He did not even make a pretence of going over to where Georgiana lay to see how she was.53

  Meanwhile the Spencers assembled a trousseau more lavish than those of many princesses on the Continent. In three months they spent a total of £1,486 on hundreds of items: sixty-five pairs of shoes filled one trunk, forty-eight pairs of stockings and twenty-six “and a half ” pairs of gloves filled another.54 They bought hats, feathers, and trimmings; morning dresses, walking dresses, riding habits, and ball gowns. There was her wedding dress to be made, her court dress, her first visiting dress, as well as cloaks, shawls, and wraps. The prospect of a union between two such wealthy and powerful families naturally caught the attention of the press—there had been no Duchess of Devonshire for over two decades. People described the marriage as the wedding of the year and anticipated that the new Duchess of Devonshire would revive the former splendour of Devonshire House. The Whig grandees also looked upon the match with favour, hoping that the married state would have a beneficial effect on the Duke.

  The wedding took place on June 7, 1774, two days earlier than the official date. There had been so much publicity about the marriage that the Spencers feared the church would be mobbed with curious onlookers. They persuaded the Duke to leave the comfort of his home temporarily and stay with them at Wimbledon Park, so that the marriage could take place in the peace and quiet of the local parish church. According to Mrs. Delany, Georgiana knew nothing of their plans until the morning of the ceremony. She did not mind at all; a secret marriage appealed to her. “She is so peculiarly happy as to think his Grace very agreeable” and, to Mrs. Delany’s surprise, “had not the least regret” about anything. She wore a white and gold dress, with silver slippers on her feet and pearl drops in her hair. Eighteenth-century weddings were small, private occasions. There were only five people present at Georgiana’s: the Duke’s brother Lord Richard Cavendish and his sister Dorothy, who had married the Duke of Portland, and on Georgiana’s side only her parents and paternal grandmother, Lady Cowper.55 George and Harriet remained at Wimbledon, waiting for the wedding party to return. Georgiana’s feelings clearly showed on her face, while the Duke appeared inscrutable. His new wife may have occupied his thoughts, although they may well have turned to another Spencer. Not very far away in a rented villa, on a discreet road where a carriage could come and go unseen, Charlotte Spencer, formerly a milliner and no relation to the Spencers, was nursing a newborn baby: his—their—daughter Charlotte.56

  CHAPTER 2

  FASHION’S FAVOURITE

  1774–1776

  The heads of Society at present are the Duchess of Devonshire, Duchess of Marlborough, Duchess of Bedford, Lady Harrington, and Co. etc.

  Morning Post, Saturday, July 29, 1775

  The excess to which pleasure and dissipation are now carried amongst the ton exceeds all bounds, particularly among women of quality. The duchess of D——e has almost ruined her constitution by the hurrying life which she has led for some time; her mother, Lady S——r has mentioned it with concern to the Duke, who only answers, “Let her alone—she is but a girl.”

  Morning Post, Monday, March 11, 1776

  Three days after the wedding the Duke was spotted with his drinking companions trawling the pleasure gardens of Ranelagh at Chelsea. He provoked more gossip when he turned up four hours late for his presentation at court with Georgiana. All newly married couples were required to present themselves to the Queen at one of her twice-weekly public audiences at St. James’s Palace, known as Drawing Rooms. “The Drawing-room was fuller than ever I saw it,” a witness recorded, “excepting that of a Birthday [of the King or Queen], owing, as I suppose, to the curiosity to see the Duchess of Devonshire.” Georgiana was wearing her wedding dress and “look’d very pretty. . . . happiness was never more marked in a countenance than hers. She was properly fine for the time of year, and her diamonds are very magnificent.”1 The formidable Lady Mary Coke wondered why the Duke ambled in on his own several hours after Georgiana. He “had very near been too late; it was nearly four o’clock when he came into the Drawing-Room.” She watched him for some time and noticed that he showed no emotion. “His Grace is as happy as his Duchess,” she decided charitably, “but his countenance does not mark it so strongly.”2 Lady Mary’s opinion might have been different had she known about Lady Spencer’s frantic messages to the Duke, imploring him not to be late.

  Protocol demanded that Georgiana should pay a call on every notable person in society. For the next three weeks she went from house to house, making polite conversation for fifteen minutes while her hosts scrutinised the new Duchess of Devonshire. In an era when social prestige was itself a form of currency, Georgiana’s visits were highly prized. Lady Mary Coke was not among the five hundred whom Georgiana managed to see, which soured her feelings towards her cousin for ever after.

  In early July Georgiana set off with the Duke on the three-day journey northwards from London to Derbyshire, to stay at Chatsworth for the summer. The long hours on the road, with no amusement save the view from the window, were the first she had spent alone with her husband. He had hardly addressed a word to her since the day of their marriage. His taciturnity made her nervous and she overcompensated by being excessively lively. There were plenty of scenes for her to point out: a picturesque church here, a field of poppies there—rural villages in England were much more prosperous and better kept than in Europe. A Frenchman on a tour of Britain in 1765 was amazed to see that labourers had shoes on their feet, and instead of grey rags wore “g
ood cloth” on their backs. In contrast to the mud cottages of the peasantry in France, all the dwellings he saw were “built of brick and covered with tiles, [and] have glass windows.”3

  The road had dwindled to little more than a bumpy track by the time the cavalcade of wagons and baggage carts reached Derbyshire. Here rocky moorland and fast-flowing waterfalls replaced the green hedgerows and rich hay fields of the south. Daniel Defoe toured England at the beginning of the century and described the countryside around Chatsworth as a “waste and howling wilderness with neither hedge nor tree.” But Horace Walpole, visiting the area half a century later, when tastes inclined towards the romantic, was spellbound by its ruggedness. “Vast woods hand down the hills,” he wrote, “and the immense rocks only serve to dignify the prospect.” He admired the terrain; but Chatsworth itself—the Palace of the Peak—with its gloomy grandeur and isolated situation, lowered his spirits.