New York - The Novel

very existence, she suddenly realized, she was almost entirely ignorant.
    “Such wealth,” she heard her husband remark to Albion, “must confer enormous power.”
    “It does. The Duke of Northumberland, for instance—whose London house is bigger than this—comes from a feudal family who ruled like kings in the north for centuries. Today, the Duke has dozens of Members of Parliament who vote exactly as he tells them to. Other powerful magnates do the same thing.”
    “We have no feudal families like that in the colonies.”
    “The proprietors of Maryland and Pennsylvania still possess land grants which give them feudal powers,” Albion pointed out.
    It was perfectly true that the seventeenth-century grants made to a few families like the Penns, and indeed the land grants of the great patroonsup the Hudson River—grants given them to develop what was then empty territory—had left these magnates with almost feudal powers.
    “They don’t build palaces, though,” John said.
    Meanwhile, Mrs. Albion was whispering in Mercy’s ear.
    “There’s the Duchess of Devonshire. They have another house like this just along the street. There’s Lord Granville. And oh my, there’s Lady Suffolk. You don’t often get the chance to see her.”
    “Who’s Lady Suffolk?”
    “Why, the king’s old mistress. A very kind lady, much respected. And look over there.” She indicated a handsome lady to whom everyone was bowing. “That’s Lady Yarmouth, the king’s present mistress. The most important lady at the court.”
    “The king’s mistress is important?”
    “Of course. After the queen died she became, you might say, the royal consort.”
    “And before she died, what did the queen think of her husband’s mistress?” Mercy asked wryly.
    “Oh, they were great friends. They say the king consulted the queen closely on how to woo Lady Yarmouth. See to her left, that’s Lord Mansfield, very influential.”
    But Mercy didn’t look at Lord Mansfield. She was still grappling with the notion of the royal mistress. How could it be that the ruler of the country, the head of the Established Church, could not only take mistresses, but that these women were honored like honest wives? New Yorkers, heaven knows, were no strangers to immorality, but her Quaker soul was offended by this official acceptance of public vice.
    “Does everyone at court keep a mistress?” she asked.
    “Not at all. Lord Bute, the king’s closest adviser, is a religious man of unimpeachable morals.”
    “I am glad to hear it. Doesn’t private vice make a man unworthy of public office?”
    And now kindly Mrs. Albion looked at Mercy with genuine astonishment.
    “Well,” she laughed, “if it did, there’d be no one to govern the land.”
    Mercy said nothing.
    And now, by the door, there was a stir. A name had been announced and the crowd was parting. She looked to see who it was.
    The young man was about twenty. A big, ungainly boy, with bulgingeyes and a small head. He looked a little shy. But as people bowed, she realized who this must be.
    Prince George was the king’s grandson. But since his own father’s early death, he’d become the heir to the throne. Mercy had heard that he took a keen interest in agriculture, and that he meant well. From the smiles that accompanied the bows and curtsies, it seemed that people liked him. So this was the Prince of Wales.
    But as she watched his progress round the room that evening, and observed his simplicity of manners, she wondered whether when he became king, he would do anything to change this world of aristocratic excess and immorality. Somehow, she doubted it.

    Ten days later, the Albions took them on a journey to the west. James came too, and young Grey Albion. It was a pleasant party, all the more so as Mercy had the chance to observe her son and the Albion boy. Young Grey had a very sweet nature, and it was clear that James quite enjoyed acting the elder brother to him. They went down to the New Forest, where the Albion family came from, and across to Sarum and Stonehenge. They enjoyed the ancient intimacy of the forest, and admired the huge agricultural estates around Sarum. Albion also told them much about the improved farming methods and machinery that were bringing England an ever increasing prosperity. From Stonehenge they had gone to Bath, and spent several delightful days in the fashionable Roman spa.
    It was here, in the pump room one morning, that Albion encountered a friend.