1817
Five years into their marriage, Catherine had learned that William could be a genial, generous husband – as long as he got his own way. She resolved not to ask too many questions about his spending, and in return he was at his most attentive. Catherine still enjoyed nights out on the town with her husband, attending dinners and balls, but her priorities had changed since her marriage, and her two young boys were her main concern. Owing to this, she did not always accompany William when he stayed over at their town house in Dover Street for a few nights, particularly if he was busy with parliamentary duties. But their marriage was mostly harmonious, and they were getting along much better since Catherine had yielded over money issues. When they were alone together William was pleasant company, entertaining her with amusing stories and soothing her with tenderness.
William found the season of 1817 subdued following the departure of many of London’s most colourful characters. Richard Sheridan had died the previous year, Beau Brummell was in Calais avoiding his creditors, and Lord Byron had fled abroad to escape scandal. With the Drury Lane Theatre set sadly depleted, the friendship between William and Douglas Kinnaird blossomed. According to his closest companions, Kinnaird was a ‘kind and benevolent’ man who always stood by his friends.1 His loyalty was evident that summer as he endeavoured to solve William’s financial problems, while also planning a trip abroad to offer support to Byron.
The one thing that Kinnaird treasured most in the entire world was his long-term mistress, Maria Kepple. Although the bewitching actress and singer was not actually married to the banker, they had lived happily together for almost a decade and so everyone called her ‘Mrs Kinnaird’. She was not welcome in polite circles, but this did not seem to bother her and she was perfectly happy to host intimate gatherings at home in Clarges Street, Piccadilly. As an actress and singer, entertaining was second nature and her conversation was amusing and candid, with a hard-nosed, cynical edge. Well able to indulge in scathing banter, her cultivated guests quickly discovered that the captivating, dark-haired beauty was not a woman to trifle with. Kinnaird was so besotted, Byron could not resist remarking, ‘Nobody keeps their piece nine years now-a-days – except Douglas K.’2
Conversation at Mrs Kinnaird’s table was not stifled by the strict rules of propriety. Lively political debates and salacious gossip were the order of the day, especially when the likes of Hobhouse or Thomas Moore were present. On one particular evening, gossip was rife as guests made shocking revelations about mutual acquaintances. Trying to impress the company, William dropped hints about a cover-up at the Treasury involving the former foreign secretary, George Canning. Pressed on the matter by Hobhouse, William revealed that a dispatch from Portugal had been burned because it did not reflect well on the foreign secretary. Furthermore, it had been William’s job to précis a false report, altering the facts to Canning’s advantage.3 Exposing the foreign secretary in this way was a dreadful betrayal of trust, particularly as Canning was a close friend of Richard, Marquess Wellesley. William had not learned from previous blunders and remained as indiscreet as ever.
Having visited Constantinople with Byron in 1810, Hobhouse had heard first-hand reports of William’s astounding folly in declaring war on Turkey. When the matter came up over dinner, William remained genial and good-natured. Always seeking approval from his peers, he invited Hobhouse to Wanstead, saying jovially, ‘I hope you will find me a better country gentleman, than an ambassador.’4
Later that evening William retreated into another room to discuss his finances. Kinnaird was a huge support, giving William sound advice and trying to find ways of reducing the ‘vicious interest’ he was paying on loans.5 Having made discreet enquiries about selling Catherine’s diamonds, Kinnaird advised him that the jewellery would not fetch even a fraction of the true value because the market was so depressed. This was disappointing news for William but, ever the optimist, he felt confident that there would be an upturn in the economy very soon.
In August 1817, Kinnaird and Hobhouse travelled abroad to visit Byron. With Parliament in recess, William spent more time with his family. For Catherine, staying at Wanstead while William worked in town was a convenient arrangement. If she were in London, she would be obliged to make calls and entertain guests. Instead, she could devote time to her two boys, now aged four and two, taking pleasure in the fresh air and green pastures of the estate. Catherine enjoyed the best of both worlds, spending quality time with her children, but also going into town when the occasion demanded. Whenever William came home, he was attentive and, by the end of August, Catherine was pregnant again.
Early in 1818, Maria Kinnaird gave birth to a baby boy. Friends called on her at home, bearing gifts of congratulation, but Hob-house was among those who remained resolutely unimpressed. In his view, something was clearly amiss and he referred to the newborn as ‘the bastard’.6 Maria vehemently denied any wrongdoing and despite his misgivings Kinnaird desperately wanted to believe her. Nevertheless, the dates simply did not add up; Kinnaird calculated that the child had been conceived while he was away in Brighton. Late in February, Hobhouse rode up to London to dine with friends and he found Kinnaird in a state of torment. The two men walked up and down St James’s Street in the early hours, while the banker poured out his sorrow. The prospect of losing his mistress was breaking his heart, but she had abused his generosity and made a fool of him. When Kinnaird eventually determined to separate from his mistress, Hobhouse was sceptical, recording in his journal, ‘I foresaw he would not but still thought it my duty to advise him in the affirmative.’7
Much to everyone’s surprise, Kinnaird demonstrated remarkable resolve by ordering his mistress to pack her bags and leave with the baby. Even the usually scathing Byron felt saddened, lamenting Kinnaird’s loss, acknowledging, ‘she made your house very pleasant’.8 Writing from exile, Byron commented, ‘Poor Maria! . . . I understand that you have provided for her in the handsomest manner which is in your nature and does not surprise me.’9 Nevertheless, without the protection of Kinnaird, Maria found herself shunned by society. Her only hope for security in the long term was to seek acknowledgement from the father of her child – a man of great wealth. When this was not forthcoming, she wrote to his wife.
Henry Bicknell was a young man of great honour and integrity. Aged just thirteen when he entered service at Wanstead in 1812, he rose quickly through the ranks, earning the distinction of becoming the youngest butler in England.10 Nothing escaped his steely eye and he was privy to the Long Wellesleys’ darkest secrets. Bicknell knew all about William’s liaison with Mrs Kinnaird because he had been in attendance, standing with the coachman outside the house in Clarges Street.11 Over the years, Bicknell had remained fiercely loyal to Catherine, doing everything in his power to protect his sweet mistress. It was with much trepidation, therefore, that he delivered the letter that would shatter her world.
Devastated by her husband’s betrayal, Catherine was not the type of woman who could look the other way. At the turn of the nineteenth century, infidelity was rife in some upper-class circles, as demonstrated by the fifth Duke of Devonshire’s ménage à trois, and Lady Caroline Lamb’s well-publicized affair with Lord Byron, conducted with the knowledge of her mother-in-law, Lady Melbourne (who in turn had been mistress to the Prince Regent). Catherine, however, was not part of this scandal-ridden world; she had been brought up with strict Methodist beliefs, aspiring to the romantic ideals of domesticity portrayed by Jane Austen. Post Waterloo, the brittleness and sardonic wit that had been so fashionable was giving way to a softer approach. In many respects, Catherine embodied the ideal of femininity of the time; she was small and curvy, and there was softness in her looks and her manner. Her nature was charitable and kind, patient and giving. The values Catherine cherished were, by now, foreshadowing the Victorian age.
A forthright woman, Catherine confronted her husband with Maria Kinnaird’s letter. William confessed that he was the father of her baby but insisted that while he felt it his duty to provide some financial assistance, he wanted no contact with the child or the mother. William genuinely wanted to save his marriage. Having recently witnessed the downfall of close family and friends, he did not want to become the next casualty. His uncle Richard, Marquess Wellesley was bankrupt and homeless. Lord Byron had been forced to flee abroad in 1816, following the most sensational scandal of the decade. The poet’s downfall had been sudden: one moment he was the toast of London, the next he was an outcast. William resolved to learn from the mistakes of others. But Catherine was not inclined to forgive him just yet.
Although Catherine was furious, she wanted their marriage to work. Despite William’s frailties, she still loved his gentleness and strength, his tall stories and practical jokes, the fun and excitement he injected into her life. Most importantly, he was the father of her children and she craved a harmonious family life. Nevertheless, she insisted that William should show remorse, and promise to reform his conduct so that this situation would never occur again.
In elite circles, it was not uncommon for men to father illegitimate children, but attitudes and practices varied considerably. Men often provided some form of maintenance. Others took it a step further, raising the child in the family home, passing it off as a servant or orphaned relative. There were also those who ignored the problem completely. But, ultimately, the appropriate course of action was almost always determined by the man. With regards to William’s illegitimate child, however, it was Catherine who took charge.
Handling Maria Kinnaird was not straightforward, particularly as there was no precedent. Numerous instructional books offered guidance for tricky situations such as ‘rejecting a gentleman’s address’ or ‘requesting a loan of money’, but rather unhelpfully there was no section entitled ‘confronting your husband’s mistress’.12 It was an era when women did not take control. In fact, the advice would probably have been ‘do not meddle in your husband’s affairs’. But Catherine was a resourceful woman, well accustomed to standing up for herself. Driving a hard bargain, she made it clear that she would support the child, but only if she got something in return. After some negotiation, Catherine undertook to provide maintenance of £500 per annum, strictly on the understanding that Maria Kinnaird did not reside within fifty miles of Wanstead House. If she broke this condition, or had any further contact with William, the agreement would become void and she would get nothing. This did not deter Maria, who continued to live nearby, possibly in the hope that William would return. Catherine kept a close eye on the situation and eventually sent orders that Mrs Kinnaird should move to France.13 It was only after she complied with these terms that she received an annuity of £500.14 These funds were paid directly from Catherine’s personal allowance, reducing her pin money from £7,500 to £7,000. The whole business was distressing for Catherine, but more than anything she wanted to preserve her marriage, particularly now that she was pregnant with her third child.
William was determined to win back the affections of his wife. Over the previous two years, he had learned lessons from observing the changing fortunes of his two famous uncles. The decline of Richard, Marquess Wellesley had started when he left his wife to pursue a life of debauchery. Within the space of a few years, he was deeply in debt and the family estates in Dublin were sold at auction. After this, he still owed an enormous £183,000. By August 1816, the situation had deteriorated even further and bailiffs stormed his home determined to seize assets, including his cherished trophies from India. Apsley House was the ultimate symbol of the governor-general’s achievements, filled with prizes and mementoes from grateful sultans. Mr Lightfoot, the solicitor, quickly stepped in to buy off the bailiffs, but the situation was desperate. Richard had no option but to sell Apsley House along with his most treasured possessions.
In contrast, in the years following Waterloo, Wellington had soared to great heights. When the duke heard about his brother’s financial distress, he believed it would be easier for Richard if Apsley House stayed in the family, so he stepped in and bought the mansion for £42,000. It was a generous gesture, and Richard made a good profit on the £16,000 he had paid seven years previously.15 In many respects, however, it was extremely painful for the eldest brother to step aside once again to make way for Arthur. Richard watched helplessly as all his trophies from India were stripped away and replaced with Wellington’s spoils.
Apsley House is a famous landmark, nicknamed ‘Number 1 London’, and standing in a prestigious position overlooking Rotten Row in Hyde Park. When William visited in 1818, he was hugely impressed by the renovations that were underway as Wellington prepared to transform his home into a ‘Waterloo Palace’, fit for a national hero. The house itself was not as large or magnificent as Wanstead, but the contents were splendid, full of prizes that money could not buy. On the vast mahogany dinner table stood a magnificent twenty-six-foot-long centrepiece, cast from silver and displaying dancing figures and joyful cherubs, presented by the grateful Portuguese. The Prussians had spent two years crafting a 400-piece dinner service, each plate a masterpiece, exquisitely hand painted with different battle scenes. From the king of France came an Egyptian service, while the tsar of Russia had presented Wellington with a diamond-hilted sword. William was awed by the display cabinets heaving with silver plate, medals and jewel-encrusted swords awarded by the sultans of India and the sovereigns of Europe. The crowning glory of the collection was a ten-foot-tall marble statue of Napoleon, in the nude, standing proudly in the entrance hall. The splendid sculpture had been commissioned by Napoleon himself, to adorn his own residence, but the British government bought the trophy from the Louvre for 66,000 francs and presented it to Wellington.
Walking through the staterooms at Apsley House, William was confronted with the evidence of Arthur’s tremendous achievements. Not only was he the nation’s hero, he was worshipped throughout Europe. Apsley House was in the process of being transformed into a Wellington Museum, which would open to the public one day, so that future generations could view all the magnificent tributes.16 Arthur Wellesley had earned his place in history. Inspired by what he saw, William wanted some form of glory for himself, a career that would raise his profile and earn him merit and distinction.
Back at Wanstead House, Catherine tried not to dwell on the past, for the sake of her unborn baby. On his best behaviour, William tried his hardest to please his wife, assuring her that he had taken steps to raise a mortgage in order to pay over the portions owed to her sisters. Desperate for money, he had applied for a huge loan of £60,000, specifying that funds were needed ‘without delay’.17 His solicitor advised that substantial surety would be needed, ‘the whole of the estate at Rochford’, comprising around 2,000 acres.18 Accruing debt is never ideal, but Catherine was relieved to hear that the family dispute over money would soon be settled. Offers of marriage were still pouring in for Emma, with John Fremantle emerging as one of her most ardent admirers along with the Portuguese Mons de Sauveur. Writing to his uncle, Fremantle said that William was actively encouraging him because he ‘was anxious to get me or any other Englishman, fearing she might fancy this Portuguese’.19 For more than a year Fremantle pursued Emma without success, because she remained steadfast in her love for Burke.20 Eventually Fremantle told his uncle that he had the opportunity to marry a wealthy widow. He went on to say, ‘but I can’t help regretting my little Long, in short I am in the agonies of the Damned’.21
By now, William was almost thirty years old, and he had come to realize the advantages of forging a successful career in the public eye. Supposedly in another gesture to gratify his wife, he announced that he would be standing for election in Catherine’s home county. Her father had nurtured strong ties with his local community and it was traditional for a member of the Long family to represent Wiltshire in Parliament. In February 1818, William published a statement in the newspapers addressed to the Noblemen, Gentlemen, Clergy & Freeholders in the County of Wiltshire, stating his ‘anxious desire’ to stand for representation of Wiltshire.22 In an attempt to drum up support, he claimed that his motive was to restore the honour to the House of Draycot and the ancient Long family of which he was now a member.
William’s battle to be elected MP for Wiltshire in 1818 was to become one of the most notorious contests in England. Embarking on a campaign of violence, blackmail and intimidation, he would demonstrate just how corrupt the voting system could be. His antics were outrageous: hilarious and appalling at the same time. This was denoted by his opening gambit, when he assured the voting public, ‘Gentlemen, you will not find me, throughout this contest, a hot-headed, hair-brained Irishman, but a cool, honest, warm-hearted Englishman.’23