Collision Course

By Millie Norwich Inman

The shocking death of the popular Prince of Wales launches his young heir from innocent childhood into a roiling caldron of political jealousy and intrigue. Set in all the glory of mid-eighteenth century England, the child prince is urgently prepared for his estranged grandfather’s throne. Under the wing of his godly tutor-advisor, the youth staggers through an escalating minefield of hazards.
Juxtaposed with the prince’s story, is the life of a down-and-out firebrand statesman considering retirement from public service, including the House of Commons because he’s under the king’s fervent disfavor. As rumors of coup d’etat swirl around the prince, an alliance between the youth and the flagging Member of Parliament (MP) secures hope of a safe ascension. The alliance also catapults the prince’s gentle advisor and the seasoned statesman MP into the two most powerful men in Great Britain. One controls the next king. The other controls Parliament. Then, in the face of escalating war, a shocking twist changes everything.
Collision Course shatters clichés as it treks through England’s finest gardens and dines with kings and statesmen, all the while peering into the universal nature of the human soul and the heartbeat of corrupted constitutional government. This is the true, untold story of alliance, ambition, betrayal, loss, and recovery that set the world stage for the American Revolution.

—Collision Course is an excellent historical novel replete with engaging narrative, authentic characters, and verbatim period-piece dialogue. I enjoyed the whole thing—even all the food and botany.
—Tom Siebert, writer and editor

— This novel is timeless political intrigue, laced with laugh-out-loud humor, sweet romance, selfless mentoring, and paradigm marriages. Ms. Inman immerses the reader into another time and place and the scholarly aspects of the book are remarkable. The high scenes are simply stunning. I felt I was right there witnessing what was happening… I could feel exactly what the characters were going through.
—Ann Howard Creel author of The Magic of Ordinary Days
and The Whiskey Sea

—Collision Course is compelling real history with real people fleshed out and facing the real challenges of living in a fallen world. Two walk-through comedians offer comic relief a la Shakespeare’s jesters. This debut entertains while enlightening and edifying the whole family!
—Robert C. Lowry, MD
author of Recovering American Liberty: Rediscovering
the Principles of Just Government 

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798385008445

Millie Norwich Inman

Millie Norwich Inman holds a Bachelor of Arts cum laude from Washington University in St. Louis. She taught school and raised a family before dabbling in freelance for periodicals. Success added to profound sorrow over the loss of Western Civilization, launched her into extensive research for this engaging slice of history. On two trips to England she read at the British Library and Richmond Records Office, and traipsed through iconic architecture and scrumptious gardens. At home in Texas, she frequented Trinity, Rice, and UTSA libraries, and used the Inter-Library Loan System from Boerne Library. Librarian Ann Welder even retrieved an ancient tome from the Library of Congress and an article from London. Some of the wittiest dialogue in Collision Course has been lifted and adapted from original letters, similar to the research style of NYT bestseller America’s First Daughter.

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Copyright © 2023 Millie Norwich Inman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations taken from the (NASB®) New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1971, 1977, 1995, 2020 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. All rights reserved. lockman.org

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0842-1 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0843-8 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-0844-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023918124

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/19/2023

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Epilogue

Endnotes

History repeats itself because no one

was listening the first time.

—Anonymous

Cover Design by Sue Burk’s and architect

Nicholas Hawksmoor’s famous twin towers

over the west door of Westminster Abbey.

For Gary.

And for our grandchildren:

Michael and Elizabeth, Louis and Ashley, Jeffrey,

Bren, Jackson, Elizabeth, Aubree, Brett Jr.,

June Lily, and Reagan.

Author’s Note

The Succession of the British Crown

It would take an act of Parliament for an obscure German duchy such as Hanover to become front and center in London politics. Exactly! The act, passed in 1688, ended the divine rights of kings and queens. Referred to as the Glorious Revolution of 1688, the act made England a constitutional monarchy by requiring Parliament’s approval for any royal initiative.

In effect, the bloodless revolution by the stroke of the pen dethroned the Roman Catholic Stuart king James II, whose arbitrary ways rankled Parliament’s leaders and all freedom-loving Englishmen. James and his scorned supporters (Jacobites) fled to France. Parliament invited his daughter Mary, and her husband, William of Orange, who were confirmed Protestants, to mount the British throne.

Beloved, William and Mary died without an heir. So the succession fell to the next Protestant in the line, Queen Mary’s sister, Anne. Tragically, all Queen Anne’s children returned to their Maker before adulthood. So, when she was elderly, Parliament passed the even more explicit Act of Settlement of 1701 that mandated the throne pass only to non-Catholic Stuarts. Accordingly, the new succession skipped fortysomething unhappy Roman Catholics and landed on Sophia, a granddaughter of James I (IV of Scotland). Sophia was the widow of the Elector of Hanover (Brunswick-Luneburg). Like her first cousins, Mary and Anne, Sophia was a devout Protestant.

Sophia beat Ann to the grave, leaving her son Prince Georg Ludwig, who had already inherited the title of Hanover’s elector to the Holy Roman Empire on his father’s death, the Crown Prince to England’s throne.

So on August 1, 1714, the ruler of the remote German duchy Hanover, who had never set foot on English soil, nor spoken a word of English, mounted the throne to become King George I of Great Britain. It was the beginning of the dynasty of the Stuart House of Hanover. Collision Course is the story of George I’s great grandson, a child prince of Wales, and the developing power struggle between emerging leaders for control of the British Empire. Collision Course is the meticulously researched slice of true history that set the world stage for the American Revolution.

Prologue

Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;

And in Your book were all written

The days ordained for me,

When as yet there was not one of them.

—Psalm 139:16 (NAS)

Leicester House, London, March 20, 1751

Death came on a quick pale horse for Frederick Lewis, Prince of Wales. The night was robed in silent mists as it leapt over the scrolled-iron gates. Evading the courtyard torchlight, it scoffed at the House Guard in its velvet finery and sheathed swords. It swept through the heavy, carved, rococo doors, galloped past darkened staterooms, and whirled up the curved staircase to the royal apartment. A lord of the bedchamber snored on a cot just outside the sickroom door.

Inside, the prince lay awake in a cold sweat from pain in his chest. Alarmed at the intruder, he tried to argue. He was in his prime—only forty-four, experienced in business, politically powerful, and due to take the throne with his father elderly. He thrashed and moaned as his plans and dreams swirled around him like eddies of turbulent waters: clean up the rampant election corruption, unite Englishmen, and refranchise the Catholic Tories. He was destined to be the Patriot King, a righteous father to all the people—not just the exclusive twenty families ruling England. Surely God needed him here. He wiped his wet brow with his right forearm and shivered.

The intelligentsia, statesmen, and writers paraded through his mind. He heard the thunderous standing ovation when he was sighted at the opera. He’d become a venerated voice in the House of Lords and a renowned patron of the arts. Musicians, painters, woodcarvers, and silversmiths loved him. He trembled, panting for breath. The room was slowly spinning.

For a fortnight, he’d been fighting a cold, recently turned pleurisy. But usually he felt so strong, so virile. He coughed and thrashed for another excruciating moment and then felt the chilled breath of his caller. Shuddered. When was it he’d just been hunting with his boys? They’d dined on the succulent venison in plum sauce. Was it last week? Raw fear flooded his being. He gasped, pleading with God. Was he drowning? He couldn’t leave Augusta and his eight—almost nine—children. Burning tears bit his cheeks as their faces laughed and tumbled around him. No! His heir was but a child ill-prepared to mount the throne! Power-hungry politicians would overwhelm his youth and inexperience! An apparition in full military uniform with dazzling ribbons and medals. His younger brother. A battlefield hero, he was always the king’s favorite son. Always his father’s choice for heir. No. He couldn’t leave now! His son would replace him as the object of the king’s resentment. Gasping, he struggled to sit up, but his eyes refused to open. Please, God! I’ve repented. He was struggling again. He lifted his head and cried out that death was upon him. He sank back and felt strong arms holding him up. Pain was washing away in warm lapping waters; the shivers left. Fears rippled off. An angel was lifting him toward astounding light.

Horace Walpole, London’s most accomplished gossip, regretted missing the momentous occasion of a death in the court. He deserved to be there if anyone did. His own late father had been the king’s first and favorite minister. King George II and Queen Caroline adored his father. Why, the king had bounced Horace on his knee while the three of them ruled England. Growing up a court insider, Horace was always on the hunt for juicy royal morsels. It was in his nature. The slightest whiff of scandal made him salivate. And Horace had a vivid imagination for filling in the blanks. He never let absence interfere with all the sordid details.

He told his colleagues the Prince of Wales had grown very hot while attending the king to the House of Lords on March 12. Afterward, he’d put on a light frock and gone on to his garden at Kew where he’d caught a fresh cold which sent him abed again. On Monday, he had excruciating coughing fits with his doctors in attendance. They bled him and predicted improvement.

On Wednesday two doctors attended from nine to ten in the evening as coughing fits resumed. Dr. Wilmot assured the prince he’d brought up sufficient phlegm to feel better by morning. But sometime in the night, His Royal Highness struggled to raise his head and cried out death was upon him. His German valet beside him held him up and felt him tremble. Good God! The prince is going!

Princess Augusta, dozing in a chair at the foot of the bed, lunged toward her husband. But he was gone as she collapsed on his chest in a final tearful embrace. And England’s winsome dream of a patriot king—a peace-loving, unifying father of all the people—was feared lost forever too.

Chapter 1

A mighty fortress is our God, A bulwark never failing.

—Martin Luther

P rince George was twelve when Papa died. Papa had recently set him up in his own household, the dyed-in the-wool tradition for a Crown Prince approaching puberty. It was something about preparation for a righteous king could be better accomplished with less parental influence. George thought it nonsense. He was relieved Papa established him only next door under the supervision of trusted family friend Lord North for governor. Papa may have thought the custom harsh because he sent Prince Edward, George’s year-younger brother, for company. And he had construction underway for a long hallway wing joining the ho uses.

The royal tutor, Reverend Ayescough, arrived early that terrible morning. He appeared suddenly before dawn, his face framed in eerie candlestick shadow-light at the bottom of the stairs and called the princes down. Wiping sleep from their eyes, they hurried to comply, arriving wet faced and still buttoning their shirts with hair awry. George could hear Lord North clattering around in the kitchen. The prince felt vague anxiety creeping into his chest as the old gentleman folded his tall, lanky frame into a brocade wingchair and somberly requested the princes sit before him. George sat searching the piercing eyes hiding under bushy brows as the reverend ran his gnarled fingers through his thick white hair. Prince Edward was still hopping around pulling on his left boot. As soon as he settled, the old gentleman took a deep breath and sighed sorrowfully. Your papa has gone to heaven. The words swam around until they muted in the velvet drapes.

It can’t be, sir! George sprang up. The doctors said yesterday Papa had improved! He bolted out the side door. Tears blurred his vision as he raced across the garden path under a pewter-gray dawn. Chilled March wind tore at his shirttail, biting his midriff and ears. Motion slowed, and sound grew distant. Surely this was only a nightmare! He was only vaguely aware Edward and the stooped old reverend galloped somewhere behind him like a panicked rear guard.

As he lunged up the kitchen steps, Edward’s wailing closed in, tugging him from the ragged dream. The door flung open and several teary servants fell in with the miserable entourage. The room was darker than usual. Colder. The young prince paused, catching his breath while his eyes adjusted. He shivered. The fire had burned low. In the dim light, Mama sat at the table before the hearth with her head buried in her arms. A forlorn lady-in-waiting wept softly nearby.

Say it isn’t true, Mama! he gasped, racing to her. She looked up dazedly. He saw her eyes, often red with allergies, swollen to slits. Fear squeezed him, forcing a gasp. She attempted a brave demeanor, stood to greet her sons, and smoothed her skirts over the forming lump in her stomach. Ignoring her delicate condition, George threw himself against her, weeping bitterly. Edward joined the embrace, stretching his arms about them both as he bawled and shrieked. Mama bent toward them, cooing and patting. George felt lead in his inners pulling him to his knees. The room was spinning as staff scrambled to catch the crumbling tangle, settling them on the fainting couch.

Mama and Papa had seeped George in kingly decorum for a future so remote it seemed fanciful. Sprawled there in a dazed heap, tangled with Mama and Edward with the shock of smelling salts wafting through the air, he suddenly felt the frightening weight of the British Crown. Through sobs, he vowed to take Papa’s place. I’ll look after you, Mama. He struggled to halt his surging tears and sound kingly. And Edward and William. He extricated his arms from the pathetic huddle and sat upright. And Ladies Augusta II and Elizabeth. I’ll be there, Mama, for the babies. And the baby coming. The whole kitchen, usually merry with aromas of roasted meats and fresh baked bread, resounded with a chorus of gasps and sobs.

Mama cleared her throat. We’re under the king’s extreme disfavor, she said with her bottom lip quivering. Oh God, have mercy. We need Your protection and wisdom. She hugged her two boys to her. God is our hope and guide. He will meet our needs.

Everything changed after Papa was gone. Laughter, theater, and cricket matches halted like a balking steed. Mama’s eyes became perpetual springs. It knocked the wind from his chest when his little brothers and sisters would weep and cling to him. Several times, George felt grief might overwhelm him too. Confusion seeped through the household like the stench of Papa’s body left too long unattended. Papa’s cello too reposed against the music room wall, defying anyone to touch it. There it lay gathering dust as weeks stretched to months of sorrow and reverie.

George’s life blew through his mind like pieces of a cloud collage: the home of his earliest memories, his parents, the celebrated Frederick Lewis and his sensible German-born wife, Princess Augusta of Saxe-Gotha. He imagined England’s massive cast-iron bells proclaiming his birth through cobblestone streets and over hill and dale. A firstborn son had arrived to the heir apparent of England and all her domains.

Premature, Mama said he’d fit into Papa’s hand. Yet he’d flourished under Mama’s prayers and the abundant breasts of his wet nurse. He envisioned his nurse’s plump, dimpled face. He’d always make provision for her. According to Mama, he’d quickly become a robust tot with auburn curls and cheeks of roses. He vaguely recalled bounding down the nursery stairs behind his big sister, Augusta II.

Gradually, willy-nilly pleasant memories banished tears. He remembered summer picnics and concerts on the White House grass. On morning rides, he’d suddenly be with Papa cantering along Love Lane, the fragrance of the River Thames filling their souls. He heard the distant cheers of a boat race, imagined yachts with colorful flags, saw fountains of fireworks against the August night sky reflecting like a thousand jewels on the water. He saw the plots of earth Papa had staked for his children to garden. In the morning haze, he pictured them cultivating with undersized hoes and shovels. His mind’s eye saw his little sister, Elizabeth, under a grand hat half her size. And there was Prince William, hoeing resolutely, his red hair glistening as recalcitrant cowlicks directed contrary locks. He saw the joy on Papa’s face as his children shared the wonder of seedlings piercing the rich loam. The reverie faded into cold fog.

The Prince of Wales title settled on George’s puny shoulders like a large bird on a diminutive perch. The thought of being executive and father to the English-speaking peoples would make him suddenly stagger. When he peered into the looking glass, a mere child stared back. Not a whisker in sight! A recurring dream of his coronation haunted him. He was on one knee before the Archbishop of Canterbury making his vows, the grandstands jammed with adoring compatriots. Light poured through the stained glass of Westminster Abbey, splashing his white robe with glorious colors. Then the hues and images obscured as his figure struggled to hold up the royal scepter. Then the kneeling form misted into Papa, the rightful king.

Biceps for certain boost confidence. It was useful advice from his governor, Lord North. So he requested a set of dumbbells from Mama for his thirteenth birthday. A week into it, he was starting to reap results. He did a few flexes and was rumbling down the banister for morning prayers when something caught his eye out the landing window. He made a shaky halt and jumped down. Peering out, he saw two angry strangers leaving Mama’s house. A foreboding gripped him as he charged next door. Mama was as pale as a ghost.

Who are those men? he thought.

He took a deep breath to harness his thundering heart. In the silent pause, he noticed her belly swollen to the verge of bursting through the black velvet mourning clothes. Mama, I heard them shouting they’d return. She turned away. It’s money, isn’t it, Mama? Silence. Have we not enough money? He knew the income from Papa’s title Duke of Cornwall had reverted to the king. The want of it had forced her to cut Leicester staff to barebones. At the backstairs, he’d heard rumbles about gambling. Did Papa have debts we can’t pay? Her back trembled, but her eyes remained averted. Panic flooded him. How would they survive? How would he prepare for the throne? How could he gain the respect of the powerful Whigs controlling England? Papa’s lords of the bedchamber had all been dismissed. Mama, we need someone to advise us.

He heard shuffling beyond the door and knew all their remaining staff was pressed to the keyhole. Most likely, Edward was there too. For a moment, he considered suddenly opening the door and letting the whole of them tumble in. But Mama turned and embraced him.

The household, lock, stock, and barrel, already knew their predicament. Only a few men with business experience even came about the dowager and her children. Fear tried to choke the child prince. Whom can we trust? His words strangely shivered in the warm spring air.

I’ve prayed for someone. Mama wiped her eyes with a hanky. Lord Egmont? Perhaps Mr. Dodington or Dr. Lee?

Or Lord Bute! George enthused. The royal children had great affection for Lord Bute. The Scottish earl had introduced the family to amateur theater and assisted Papa in directing the children in productions.

Lord Bute’s a relative! He was a Stuart, for sure. He was John Stuart and could trace his family to Princess Elizabeth Stuart of Hanover, the same grandmother as George I. She’d been born in Scotland, the cradle of Stuart kings. Lord Bute cares for us! George pleaded.

His hands are full developing Papa’s garden. Mama sounded dismissive. He’s a botanist—London’s most accomplished, for sure.

Lawyers know business, George pleaded. He will advise us. He advised Papa. He’d been a favored lord of the bedchamber.

He does have a degree in law, Mama mused, "and he is a man of virtue."

"And he’s disinterested!" Papa had said Lord Bute was disinterested. George could almost hear Papa’s voice. A disinterested man is not consumed with the spoils of government. He has the rare quality of putting England’s concerns before feathering his own nest.

Chapter 2

Heirs … tend to quarrel with reigning monarchs.

—Romney Sedgwick, historian

F or as long as George could remember, his family spent summer holidays in the countryside at Kew. But a few months after Papa died, while he and Mama were still seeking an advisor, summer descended like an overbearing, unexpected guest. London looked like an evacuation zone when the dowager princess and her children scrambled haphazardly into their carriage. They were off to the White House Papa had built in the serenity of the far shore of the mighty Thames. Lord Bute would bring his family to Kew also so he could work on Papa’s garden. George watched hopefully for Lord Bute while rain pounded for a week. The prince’s anxiety rose with the river as menacing torrents stretched into travel warn ings.

Surveying the bleak woods out his chamber window, the young prince’s mind whirred with looming snares and lurking highwaymen along the dark path toward the throne. Between downpours, shadowed deeps strangled the timid sunlight and the king’s angry face boiled in the clouds. Deep in the night, the prince startled awake to a recurring specter: Grandfather, a large, looming figure with wild, white hair and eyebrows sewn together in a hateful scowl.

The London fog, usually content with city life, crept right over the Kew Bridge Papa had built. Instead of Bute’s family, the mists spit out Papa’s debt collectors onto the soggy countryside. Mama was shut away crying as the young prince wrote and rewrote an appeal to Lord Bute. The royal waste can overflowed as George finally watched his equerry post away through the rutted mud with his letter. On the third day, a messenger appeared, but the king’s colors clarified as he approached. George ran out to receive him, but it was official notice of the king’s callous refusal to return the lost portion of Papa’s income. Bitterness settled over George. The king’s refusal distracted him while he was reading. It cantered after him as he and Edward let their horses kick up mud while tracing the swollen river with equerries.

It’s a stubborn grudge, he complained bitterly to Edward during evening reading hours. Edward was sprawled across his bed, absorbed in Gulliver’s adventures in Lilliput.

This royal row takes the form of a dragon in my mind, George continued irritably.

A dragon? Edward came to wide-eyed attention.

A dragon that has plagued this family for generations. George hissed through clenched teeth. A dragon I must slay!

Edward looked puzzled. He’d be of little help. But the dragon continued to rear its ugly head in surprise attacks. The very next afternoon, he was flexing his budding biceps and skipping puddles on the way from the stables to tea with Mama. Edward caught up with him. Lord North’s kid said the king called you ‘a rather thick-skulled clean slate,’ the younger prince panted.

A thick-skulled clean slate? That was no compliment. It gave George pause. Governor North’s son was a credible source. He was older—and smarter, for sure. It must have to do with Hanover. George scratched his head. Hanover was the wellspring of family brawls. Hanover was the remote German duchy where Papa, grandfather, and great-grandfather had all been born. George was the first in the Hanoverian succession to the British throne born in England. He was the first to speak English without a cumbersome German accent. Perhaps the king would like to instill in my thick, clean slate, George mused, "the cheery feelings Papa lacked for the German homeland."

They resumed puddle-hopping with silent vigor. When Edward finally spoke, he was trying to unravel England’s convoluted entanglement with the Germans. Queen Anne didn’t have any heirs. So Parliament had to go all the way to Hanover to pop the crown on a Protestant head?

Uh huh, George mumbled. A girl—a granddaughter of James I. She’d married the chief duke in Hanover. But when Parliament caught up with her, she was old. So her son, who was for sure pretty old too, came to be crowned George I. He was our great-grandfather.

Edward stooped to chase a toad that had the misfortune of crossing their path. George hurried along after his distracted brother and the critter with his closing thoughts. Great-grandfather sailed over from Germany and rescued England from the arbitrary Catholic kings who thought they were rather like God. But mean. Papa said rulers who think they’re God are called ‘tyrants.’ Papa said George I was a hero—gave up his whole life to come save England.

The toad and Edward scrambled into a muddy daisy thicket. Since the kings of England are donated by Hanover, George concluded loudly, in hopes Edward was still listening behind the daisies, England is obliged to pay for Hanover’s army and stuff. He wanted to explain money and loyalty to Hanover were the real problem, but begged Edward leave the mud and the frog. They picked daisies for Mama, which made her beam. Over tea, she read Lord Bute’s reply. His lordship would be honored to accept the business advisor position to the dowager Princess and Prince of Wales.

Mama’s time came upon her, interrupting a meeting with the new business manager. The sun was low over the western horizon when George noticed her ladies running to the cistern with buckets and sloshing off toward her lying-in chamber. His heart did summersaults as he grabbed his books and hurried after the commotion. Frowning ladies and somber midwives bustled in and out as he staked out a position on the bench across from the door, trying to catch a glimpse inside. Several weeks ago, George and Edward had slipped in and had a good look at the birthing bed Papa had bought. But the chamber was off-limits to boys tonight. Even the keyhole was stuffed. It was dark aside from the fireplace blazing beyond the comings and goings. Each time the door opened and closed, a puff of heat blew out like the dragon’s fiery breath.

Papa had insisted childbirth was most dangerous at the hospital. But as the sun melted into the western horizon, casting the hall in gilt, the prince’s head was full of tales of women lost in childbirth. He shifted, retrieved Papa’s watch from his pocket, tensely listened for the dying scream. Candles were lit in the hall, prompting his reading several pages of Christian’s plight at Vanity Fair. His academic load was light in summer. He and Edward met with tutors in the morning; afternoons were free. George was grimly calculating Mama’s odds of surviving her ninth birth when Governor North arrived with a quilt and pillow. He sighed relief. His lordship didn’t even comment the books at his feet like so many good intentions. Instead, the governor ordered a tray with milk and buttered bread. He spoke with hushed confidence and whispered a prayer for a safe delivery, lifting George’s spirits.

The prince felt groggy after his supper. Wrapped in the quilt, he listened with all his might. A nightingale’s song floated through the east window. Muted voices drifted from under the door. He’d heard no alarming outbursts as the distant strikes on the massive bell from St. Paul’s Cathedral came wafting across the still city. Counting ten was the last thing he remembered.

He awoke with a start and sat up half-stunned. A dawn with golden-lined clouds was pouring through the windowpanes. Mama had been delivered of a baby girl and was resting. She would remain lying in, in danger of the sepsis for two long weeks of isolation.

As soon as she was safe, Lord Bute was of the first order of business. He and his family were renting a house in Kew for the rest of the season. George was jumping up and down on the inside as he kept his kingly decorum ushering his lordship to the kitchen hearth, where the sweet smell of scones and tea hung in the air. Several staff peeked around the corner as Mama rocked the baby and his lordship bowed deeply. After formalities and delight over the wee princess, Mama bid Bute and George take a bench at the table. As they ate scones and sipped tea, Mama laid out their problem.

Your Royal Highness, Bute counseled, you have little choice but to throw yourself and your dear children at the mercy of the king.

Mama paused rocking the sleeping baby cradled in her arms. Her eyes grew wide. The king cares nothing for the junior court, she retorted haughtily.

Reconciliation best serves you and your children, Your Royal Highness. The earl was soft-spoken but persuasive. ’Tis also best for the British Crown. ’Tis most surely best for the Prince of Wales lad. The king knows he’s no opposition to fear from you. The earl’s regular features lit with a gracious smile. These precious children are flesh of his flesh … He gestured from the new baby to Prince George.

There was an awkward pause while Mama made an unpleasant face. Somewhere there must be a heart beating inside that brutish exterior, she grumbled before pleading his lordship write the appeal.

I think it should come in Mama’s hand, George protested.

I have little education. She stood and handed the baby to her lady. I’ve not the confidence on a delicate matter. Lord Bute writes eloquently. Mama had grown up a German princess from Saxe-Gotha. After all these years of studying English, she’d had no official writing occasions.

George’s eyes met Bute’s as he mumbled assent.

I have another recommendation, Your Royal Highnesses, the Scot said to Mama. You consider naming the wee princess after the king’s beloved late queen. Caroline. Mama didn’t answer. Her private opinion had been the queen had rather needed an appointment with Jesus.

George stood next to his lordship as the earl wrote the king Papa had bitterly opposed—the king who hated them. A frightening memory taunted him. The dragon opened its awful mouth. Papa was defiantly addressing the king. There is no earthly reason for Great Britain taxpayers to defend the measly electorate with their hard-earned wages. None!

Measly? Grandfather’s eyes had narrowed under unruly brows before a tirade of Saxon profanities cut the air. Measly! he hollered through gritted teeth. He sent his wig sailing with a violent kick. The memory still made George’s heart pound. Powder drifted through filtered light as Mama hastily gathered her frightened brood from behind the damask sofa and hustled it outside to the thuds and grunts of a royal scuffle. Papa will go to the Tower! George breathed to his wild-eyed older sister.

Surely he will appear in chained custody of the Palace Guard! His sister cried with tears pouring down her face.

But Mama said evenly, We will wait at the carriage for the King of England and the heir apparent to conclude their business. She referred to the frightening ruckus as a discussion and calmly sent the footman back to please collect the Prince of Wales.

Papa had appeared with the sole casualty, a waistcoat button, he merrily showed his children. He adjusted his sword, which had slipped in its scaffold, and smoothed his hair with a palm. Good as new! He relieved his brood with a hearty smile. The junior family had rolled away in silence.

The family rift is unfortunate, Mama had said with delicacy as soon as they were safely beyond Kensington Palace gates. And rolled out of the king’s life, George lamented as Bute wrote.

That first summer at Kew without Papa seemed endless. The dragon kept spitting fire. Governor North’s precocious son dragged endless royal family tittle-tattle from the secret Hanoverian cupboard. That was what he said.

"Ye old dead Queen Caroline called your Papa a wechselbalg," the moppet told Edward. Edward passed it all on to George. "The little chap wasn’t sure what it meant but insisted ‘it was scandalous!’"

Mama reddened when George asked over tea. Wechselbalg means ‘an imposter.’ It’s German.

Ah?

One child placed in a crib in place of another. Mama resugared her tea and stirred too vigorously. George feared she might drink the painted roses.

Why would Grandmother call Papa that?

Mama shrugged. But shortly thereafter, Lord and Lady Bute were dinner guests. Mama was still in black, everything somber. After the platters were cleared, the ladies retired to the baby and embroidery, and Edward excused himself to his mathematics. George found the good fortune of time alone with Lord Bute, who knew everything like his Papa had.

Why was Papa called ‘an imposter’?

Well, the earl said thoughtfully, though your father was born and educated in Hanover, you know it offended the king and queen he lost no love on the duchy.

From the secret Hanoverian cupboard came whispers Queen Caroline had called Papa a villainous wretch and a sordid monster. Even on her deathbed, the queen had refused to see Papa. George was glad his wicked grandmother had died before he was born. But the boys had also heard tittle-tattle Papa’s father hated him too—scorching spit from the dragon’s mouth.

The next chance he had with Lord Bute, he asked, Why did the king ban Papa from the Court of St. James? The young prince fought a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard. Why did they hate him?

The earl was thoughtfully rubbing his chin. The Hanover tension began long before your father came to England. It began when George I showed favoritism to your father over his own son, your grandfather. George I threatened to exclude your grandfather from the succession, mind you.

That would be impossible under the Acts of Settlement, George said as he stiffened.

There’s a slight possibility, Your Royal Highness. Until your grandfather had safely ascended the throne, he left your father in Hanover. Your father was twenty—or twenty-one—before his father took the throne and he was allowed to set foot on British soil. England would have benefited had he been educated here, mind you. The Scot smiled and winked kindly. Your father was a just man and a passionate scholar.

George frowned. Please tell me more, sir.

Bute sighed, shifted his position. Abandoned in Hanover as a wee lad, your Papa developed a contrary position on most everything the king desired. Oh, he wisely believed in government economy. But I think he wanted to hear the king say he loved him, perhaps like he loved Hanover. Instead, the king called him a traitor and said economy would begin with him. He gave your father a third the allowance he’d received as Prince of Wales. George waited through a silence. Money is power, and your grandfather feared your father. We must always remember our resources are God’s provision, Your Royal Highness. Even kings are mere stewards.

George had to kill this hateful dragon. How can I unify this family?

The earl cleared his throat. Fear God alone. Grow in wisdom through studying His Word. Always respect the office of king. The Scottish earl shifted again. As king, you will be the highest representative of a free people. You will guarantee justice, mercy, and integrity. George held the Scot’s gaze. Your Royal Highness, abandoning your father in Hanover was an error. George I and George II were harsh fathers. George waited again. When your papa agreed to marry your mama—whom the king had chosen, mind you—your father expected an increase in his stipend commensurate with his responsibilities. Your grandfather refused again, humiliated him publicly. Banished from St. James Palace, Prince Frederick responded by opening the rival court at Leicester House. An opposition party. He held levees and entertained his political friends. You’ve heard lots of the Patriots. The king had done the same thing in the same house—defied his father. The Scot shook his head with a painful smile. Your papa’s busy court and the public’s growing affection for him were a bellows on the king’s ire.

Papa bypassed the king and asked Parliament for a pay increase. And won it!

Aye. There came the day your papa’s opposition controlled the vote. Sir Robert Walpole could pass nary a bill for the Crown—was forced to resign as first minister. Your grandparents loved Sir Robert Walpole. Your father had publicly embarrassed them and they were even more vengeful, said cruel things, even schemed against the MPs who backed your Papa.

The prince and Bute were staring at the fire’s dying embers.

So there it is, Your Royal Highness. Bute wagged his head soulfully. Same old story common to humankind that grieves the heart of God: pride, jealousy, divisions, revenge. Spiritual infirmity grows all too comfortably in our human nature, my lad. Sins become dark, shadowy oaks occluding our view of the sky. We must take courage to confess them as soon as sighted from the ramparts of our soul.

When George next sought Bute, it was in the garden and Edward tagged along down the garden path. The three sat on a stone bench, munching biscuits and sipping the tea his lordship had in his basket. There was a crock of strawberry jam too. As George talked man to man with Bute, Edward became an annoyance, gobbling his lordship’s biscuits and smacking his lips like a marooned sailor. George frowned at him in vain. He had jam on his cheek and was sighing like Behemoth when his lordship kindly dismissed him.

When George strode back through the garden gate and up the gravel path to the White House, the shadows were long. Though daylight, he could see a furry full moon peering through the trees in the east. He would ask the earl about that. Like Papa, Lord Bute knew astronomy.

Edward was waiting for George at the stables. The king is coming to dinner, he taunted in singsong.

My jackboot! The king wouldn’t come to Kew! He turned his back as Edward delivered a blow. It caught George in the ribs. He spun with a furious left-right, catching Edward’s forearm and midriff. Edward returned a flurry of pummels and an infuriating kick. They scuffled to the ground and George found the advantage. He was ready to rub his brother’s nose in the dirt when an equerry grabbed a collar in each hand and jerked them to their feet.

No dragon slaying for George. Mama saw to it George apologized. Lord Bute’s appeal had been well-received. George II was coming to dinner tomorrow. Furthermore, Prince Frederick’s posthumous child was to be named Caroline, after the late queen.