Shattered by the outcome of the trial, William withdrew into privacy for some time. The knocker on his door was muffled, and he did not receive any visitors, apart from the physicians who visited him daily. Laid up in bed, he had plenty of time to grow bitter. Disgusted by the fact that his own family had not supported him, William blamed Wellington for his misfortune, because the duke had openly opposed him and stood as guardian.
After lodging an appeal against the Lord Chancellor’s judgement, William decided that he needed to convince his family to come out in support of him before the next hearing. Bribery and intimidation had worked well during his election campaign, so he tried this approach again. William claimed to have information that would ruin his father and uncles, and threatened to expose the whole family in the press. Naturally, the Wellesleys were appalled, but they refused to cooperate. When this ploy did not work, William came up with a more sinister plan.
At the time, Colonel James Grant was one of the few people who would suffer William’s company. One evening at dinner William burst out with an account of what he would do if the Duke of Wellington interfered in his court appeal.1
‘By God, I will shoot him,’ declared William.
Grant could not believe his ears. ‘Do you know what you are saying? You must be mad!’
William replied calmly, ‘I am fully aware of what I am saying and I will expiate the Crime on the Scaffold.’
The next morning Grant met William again and saw by the sullen earnestness of his manner that his words had been no idle menace. News of the assassination plot reached the Duke of Wellington, and fixer Merrick Shawe was called on yet again to counsel the would-be assassin. But the prospect of the gallows had already dissuaded William.
Instead of killing his uncle, William decided that he would try to ruin his career by blackening his name with slander. His accusations appeared in the Frolicsome Companion, which promised to deliver more ‘Amorous Scenes’ and ‘Voluptuous Anecdotes’ than any other publication. The sordid account of the duke’s love life contained many choice lies. Numerous women were named and shamed, including the highly proper Marianne, Marchioness Wellesley. William was proud of the fact that he had succeeded in discrediting two members of his own family in one fell swoop. Wellington was on the verge of becoming prime minister and the article might well have damaged his prospects. Wellington remained remarkably restrained under the circumstances; he wrote a courteous letter to William explaining that the threat to shoot him plus the libellous pamphlet put him in a rather awkward position, to say the least. He might have to prosecute, particularly if the accusations were published in a paper with a wider circulation than the Frolicsome Companion.
Having slandered members of his own family, William launched an attack on the Miss Longs, claiming that he did not want to leave his children in their care because the spinster sisters were conducting a sexual union of an unnatural and incestuous nature. The affidavit William produced for Lord Chancellor Eldon was a string of invented horrors. He claimed that: Dora and Emma were having sexual relations with each other, as well as sexual intercourse with the various young boys who played with his children; Victoria’s governess was a prostitute; Emma had committed incest with her uncle; all the rest of the Long family were drunken blasphemers . . . and so on. No credence was given to the ludicrous accusations, particularly as everyone knew that the Long family were upstanding Evangelicals.
Similarly, William made vicious and ludicrous allegations against Mr Pitman and Dr Bulkeley. He falsely claimed that it had been Bulkeley who helped Helena abort her baby in Naples, and the public were scandalized. The reputations of both Pitman and Bulkeley were dragged through the mud and the good doctor’s career was completely destroyed.
The mad ingenuity of William’s mind made him believe that if he discredited all the people caring for his children, the Lord Chancellor would have to grant him custody. His plan did not work and William lost his appeal in 1828. Bombarding Eldon with letters, William continued to rage and lodge petitions. In fact, he considered himself such an expert on certain points of law that he felt qualified to publish a book – A View of the Court of Chancery (1830).
William’s intellectual posturing was ridiculed in the cartoon A Bright Thought.2 At first glance the satirical sketch seems to present William as he saw himself – a great thinker, a man of learning, surrounded by books and stacks of legal papers, with pen in hand. The caption above his head says, ‘I’ll be revenged and write a faithful history of the Court of Chancery.’ On closer inspection, however, the titles of the books around him are ironic – Affidavit, Petition (both several times), Answer, Bills of Costs 5000. The lithograph also shows that William, in his early forties, was an attractive man, virile and athletic. The pose with his legs splayed is highly suggestive and sexual.
Catherine’s priority had been to protect her children, but she had not been as meticulous about safeguarding her assets and William managed to gain a major victory over her. In 1815, she had been harassed into signing a will granting him £50,000 in the event of her death. On her deathbed, she had revoked this in the deed witnessed by John Pitman and Henry Bicknell. William attempted to overturn this document by making various claims and allegations, including that it was a forgery created by Dora Long. He filed a suit to this effect against Catherine’s trustees, and the case was heard in the Prerogative Court on 24 February 1826. Astonishingly, William won the case – it was deemed that he was entitled to £50,000 from Catherine’s estate.3 The court ruling gave William the leverage he needed to pester Catherine’s trustees for money; he even went around seizing assets and selling them. In effect, he was plundering his own sons’ trust fund.
When it came to money, William was characteristically slippery. The task of managing him proved to be extremely onerous for the trustees, giving them a taste of the pressures Catherine had contended with. William also continued to harass the Miss Longs, insisting that they hand over all Catherine’s worldly goods, including her private letters. In theory, as her widower he was entitled to these possessions. But it was a grey area because Catherine had been separated from him and trying to obtain a divorce. Arguments continued until Catherine’s entire archive of papers was destroyed in a fire – Dora and Emma did not care to comment on whether the blaze had been started deliberately. However, they could not prevent William taking possession of Catherine’s famous diamonds which she had set aside for Victoria. The jewels were auctioned at Christie’s in London on 18 May 1827. The lot was described as ‘a casket of jewels of extraordinary splendour and value’, comprising of a magnificent necklace composed of thirty uncommonly large and fine brilliants, a sumptuous tiara, a pair of earrings with drops of great beauty and size, plus a pair of bracelets of thirty-six brilliant collets.4 The hoard fetched an enormous £5,898, around the same price as the detached villa William had purchased at Regent’s Park. Nevertheless, it was a huge loss from the £25,000 guineas paid in 1812. In no time, William ran through the cash he obtained from the sale of the diamonds, and found other ways to squeeze money from Catherine’s estate.
Despite Catherine’s efforts to safeguard her children, they went on to lead tragic lives, overshadowed by the loss of their beloved mother and the constant misdeeds of their depraved father. William continued to corrupt the boys with his malicious influence, encouraging them to abscond from boarding school and generally make life difficult for their guardian. They ran riot at Wellington’s estate in Stratfield Saye, damaging furniture and smashing windows. To his great credit, Wellington remained true to his word and never relinquished custody, despite all the trouble they caused.
William continued to hound the Lord Chancellor, but although he lodged endless appeals he never gained custody of his children. Popularity, status and wealth meant everything to William, but he had lost public respect and become an outcast from society. Even his own father would have nothing to do with him. William wrote to his mother: ‘I implore, I beg of you on my knees to see me. I am most anxious to have an interview with you and my father, to request you will both do me the favour to accept the guardianship of my children.’5
The letter had no effect, although his mother did grant him a short interview. When his mother advised that Lord Maryborough had no desire to be reconciled with him, William cried pitifully and asked, ‘What justification can a father have for abandoning his son thus?’6
‘What justification did you have when you abandoned your sweet, amiable wife?’ was her reply.
Whenever William went out riding in Rotten Row, his former friends and associates ignored him completely. One afternoon a female relative stopped her carriage to speak with him. With affectionate remonstration, she urged William to withdraw from public life for a short while longer.7 Deluded as ever, he replied jovially, ‘Nonsense, this business will soon be forgotten; I will regain my true place in society.’
Just as he uttered these words he spotted a man of the cloth, with a shining bald head, advancing towards him on a spruce cob. He immediately recognized the dishonest clergyman who had counterfeited his cheque some years previously, during the golden years at Wanstead House. William had gallantly spared the man’s life, saving him from the hangman’s noose. Smiling over at the cleric, William said confidently to his companion, ‘Well here comes one at any rate, who will not turn his back upon an old friend.’
Cantering up, the clergyman stared William full in the face and rode straight past. Even the dishonest cleric wanted nothing to do with him. In polite circles this was known as ‘A Complete Cut’.
William went on to lead a long and villainous life, cementing his nickname ‘Wicked William’. Stories of his scandalous exploits could fill volumes. In the two years following the custody battle, William focused entirely on revenge, vowing he would ruin everyone who had testified against him. As a young man he had been charming, and possessed of many redeeming qualities, but when his life spiralled out of control he became deluded, blaming everyone else for his misfortune. Spurred on by a sense of entitlement, he grew increasingly vindictive if anyone crossed him; even his own children did not escape his wrath.
In July 1831, the public were gripped when William carried out his threat to kidnap Victoria and convey her to France.8 While the Miss Longs were out for the day, he turned up at their house in Unstead Wood, accompanied by four armed thugs, and forcibly removed Victoria from the servants minding her. Returning from their trip, Dora and Emma passed the carriage racing away, with the poor little girl inside. They could see that Victoria was in great distress, sitting between her father and another ruffian.9 Naturally, Dora and Emma were frantic as they appealed for help, petitioning law agents as well as the Lord Chancellor. Close family blasted William for the ‘brutal violence used to kidnap the unfortunate child’, lamenting, ‘If [Victoria] is not very promptly recovered she will be irretrievably ruined in mind . . . it is a most melancholy proof of Mr Wellesley’s depravity and villainy.’10 Thankfully, the Lord Chancellor intervened and William was thrown into the Fleet Prison for contempt of court. Some residual sympathy for William was evident as he was sent gifts in prison, while prominent tavern keepers kept him well fed and watered during his detention by supplying his ‘table gratis with choicest wines and viands’.11 But in the main, public interest in this story revolved around Victoria’s safe return to England. After a two-week spell in captivity, William conceded and told the court where he was hiding Victoria. When she was reunited with the Miss Longs, one month after her abduction, the nation breathed a sigh of relief. William was released from prison without further repercussions and the matter was considered closed.12 Unbeknown to the court, however, Victoria had only been released after the Miss Longs had paid over a ransom to Mrs Bligh, who was holding the child in France.
Until her death, Catherine had honoured her commitment to Mrs Kinnaird and continued to support William’s illegitimate child. At the first opportunity, however, William stopped the payments, insisting that he was not liable for allowances granted by his wife. Legally speaking this was true, but it was morally cruel. Maria Kinnaird resorted to sending begging letters to William’s family, and eventually took him to court, where he was ordered to pay her an annuity of £300 – much less than the £500 Catherine had provided.13
In 1845, the cherished hereditary title automatically devolved to Wicked William and, much to the embarrassment of the Wellesley family, he became the fourth Earl of Mornington. The newspapers described it as ‘making a mockery of heraldry’.14 Numerous caricatures and newspaper reports bear witness to the fact that he was a celebrity in his own lifetime, but with the dawning of the upright Victorian era he became marginalized for symbolizing everything that was wrong with the old order. Contemporaries disowned him as a friend, omitted him from their memoirs and played down their association with him. In effect, William received the ultimate social ‘cut’ and he was written out of history.
William finally passed away in 1857, in his seventieth year. His funeral was a small affair conducted without pomp or ceremony, paid for by his cousin, the second Duke of Wellington. A dozen or so close family members stood in the rain as William’s remains were deposited in the catacombs at Kensal Green Cemetery. It was a suitably dismal ending for a deplorable man. More than any other newspaper, the Morning Chronicle had catalogued William’s escapades with humour and interest. On his death they supplied a fittingly scathing epitaph: ‘Redeemed by no single virtue – adorned by no single grace – his life has gone out, even without a flicker of repentance – his “retirement” was that of one who was deservedly avoided by all men.’15