1817
Much to everyone’s relief, Catherine safely delivered a second son: James Fitzroy Henry was born on 12 August 1815. In the months after his birth, strolling through Wanstead Park helped Catherine regain her strength and put the bloom back into her cheeks. Delighted with her new baby, she spent her days in the nursery watching over James and playing with Will, who had grown into a lively toddler. She was not too distracted, however, to notice that the sparkle was fading from her marriage. Longing to return to the intimacy they had once shared, Catherine reached out to her husband. William also wanted his marriage to work. As he watched his gentle wife nurse their newborn son, he was filled with tenderness, and resolved to treat Catherine with more affection in future.
William was a complex character, a man of many contradictions. On dismissing him from the army, Wellington had summed him up perfectly, remarking, ‘He is the most extraordinary person altogether I have ever seen. There is a mixture of steadiness and extreme levity, of sense and folly in his composition such as I have never met with in any other instance.’1 Everybody has shortcomings. Even Mr Darcy, the most compelling romantic hero of all time, was often proud and haughty, ‘continually giving offense’, as demonstrated at the ball in Meryton.2 Similarly, while William was often thoughtless, he could also be big-hearted.
Baily’s Monthly Magazine of Sports & Pastimes was one of the publications that focused on the more positive aspects of William’s character. On 1 March 1893, it published an anecdote about his fascination with breeding horses. It was widely known that William’s collection of thoroughbreds was his pride and joy. Highly polished with gleaming coats, they were the fastest horses in the county. On one occasion, he spent a huge amount on a colt whose parents were both prize-winning racehorses. Despite its lightning speed, the young horse had such a feisty temperament that nobody could control him. Expert horsemen travelled from far and wide to try to break him in, but nobody could master the horse until a man named Smith came forward. When the hounds met at Glen Gorse, Smith suffered no less than eight tosses over fences before the colt submitted to him.
By the time he dismounted, a love affair had blossomed and the horse followed Smith, nuzzling the back of his hot neck. William saw hunger in the man’s eyes, recognizing that this talented jockey would never be able to afford a mount of this calibre. In a gesture of extreme generosity, William handed the reins to Smith and said, ‘Here, take him.’
Shocked, Smith insisted, ‘I could not accept, sir.’
‘Nonsense! You are the only man in England equal to this colt, so you shall have him.’
Delighted, Smith took the horse, and named him ‘The Gift’. They became an unbeatable combination; the jockey won many cash prizes, finding fame and fortune on his feisty stallion. Smith was so successful he went on to found a school teaching horsemanship. This gesture was typical of William’s impulsive generosity.
William was also witty, and had an amusing turn of phrase. This yarn, told in his own words, shows why people found him so charming and entertaining:
A postilion was once driving me at a furious rate down a hill near Bradford. His horses and him sustained a dreadful looking fall; the fellow bellowed and howled immoderately, swore his bones were all broken . . . I and my servant assisted in carrying him into a public house. The stage-coachman, who knew his man, insisted on stripping the postilion stark naked, which, with much difficulty, and howling, was accomplished. No sooner was the postilion quite naked than the coachman applied the lash of his whip to his naked body. The fellow, till the whip was applied, was all aches, pains, broken bones, and immoveable; but upon this application he became as blythe as a lark, begged to dress himself, and we proceeded on our journey, myself enjoying considerably the profit I derived from the cunning of the two fellows, for I was about to give all the money about me to the postilion.3
In its publication dated October 1863, Baily’s Magazine of Sport featured another interesting story showcasing William’s compassion and generosity. Mr Long Wellesley had many hangers-on, including a sporting young cleric with a smoothly shaved head. The priest often joined William’s hunting parties and his family were constant guests at Wanstead House. He was one of the friends for whom William always had an open hand and the clergyman regularly received substantial handouts of £500.
Early one morning, William was in his dressing room at Wanstead when a post-chaise arrived bearing the confidential clerk of his bankers. Requesting an urgent interview, the clerk was shown into William’s private office where he produced a cheque. Folded over to reveal only the written name, the man asked, ‘Sir, I am desired to ascertain whether it is your signature on this cheque?’
‘No,’ said William, studying it carefully, ‘it is certainly not my writing. However, let me examine the body of the cheque, just to make sure.’
‘Pardon me, sir,’ replied the clerk, quickly putting away the paper. ‘I am instructed peremptorily to ask the question only, and not to show any part of the cheque except the appended signature.’
That evening, another carriage arrived at Wanstead and the wife of the cleric, in a state of distraction, rushed unceremoniously into William’s private apartment. She got down on her knees and begged for pity and mercy for her husband. Pressed for immediate payment of a large sum, he had forged a cheque for £800, and signed it William Long Wellesley. The money was paid, but after a suspicion had arisen, a bank clerk was dispatched to check its authenticity.
Forgery was a capital crime, so quite rightly the cleric’s wife was inconsolable. William did his best to calm her down by assuring her that no harm would come to her husband, if he could prevent it. As it was a Saturday evening, the woman feared that nothing could be done until the bank opened on the Monday. At the crack of dawn the next day, however, William headed for London as fast as four post horses could convey him. He knocked up the bank clerk, who always passed Sundays in solitary devotion on the bank premises.
William insisted that the official open up the vault where the cheque was deposited for safekeeping. This was in defiance of all rules, but William refused to be denied. Once the forged cheque was obtained, William ordered the clerk to accompany him to the banker’s house, which was situated ten miles to the west of London.
‘What can be the matter, Mr Long Wellesley?’ asked the surprised banker when William appeared on his doorstep.
‘Nothing very material. It is simply the matter of this cheque,’ said William, holding up the paper for the millionaire banker to inspect.
‘Ah! Indeed! It is a sad – a shocking business! So well connected, with a wife and family too. What is the world coming to, and what will it say? The authorities have already been apprised of the circumstances, and we shall require your presence tomorrow, I believe.’
‘Now listen. I declare before your clerk, as witness, and you as my banker, that this is my very own signature,’ said William.
‘You are an extraordinary man, Mr Long Wellesley. Do you really mean what you say?’ enquired the astonished banker.
‘I repeat that this cheque is properly signed. I ask that you honour it. Ensure that it is duly paid,’ insisted William.
‘You are the only man in England who would take this line. It is not good for business!’
‘That’s my affair!’ William replied to the unsympathetic banker, who possibly would have felt justified at having a man hanged simply for overdrawing his bank account.
On returning from stag hunting on Monday, William found the grateful clergyman waiting for him. He was red-faced, with beads of perspiration glistening on his shining bald head. Overcome by emotion, the man flung himself onto his knees, expressing his gratitude while choking back tears.
‘There, none of that nonsense,’ said William. ‘Take a glass of sherry, steady your nerves and stay to dinner.’
‘That is impossible,’ said the astonished cleric.
‘But you must, and you shall,’ insisted William. ‘I have a party coming. There are rumours circulating, but if you stay and dine with me all gossip will cease.’
The cleric stayed to dine at Wanstead. His host was in jocular form, entertaining his guests with amusing tales. Furthermore, William remained discreet; he never mentioned the incident again, to the clergyman or anyone else. William’s humour, generosity and often extraordinary compassion were such that many people were captivated by him – and none more so than Catherine.