Prince George Ludwig of Hanover

Sometimes Anne likes to walk the short distance from St James’s Palace to Whitehall: the Park is beautiful in all seasons, and there are always plenty of people for Mrs Churchill or Mrs Berkeley to notice and make sport of. On this particular December day, however, she is taking the carriage, and taking it with Lady Harriet. Today she must protect her gown from the dirt, her hair from the wind and her eyes from the cold air, lest it make them water. She is going to meet a prince – maybe the first of many, maybe the one and only – and his first sight of her better be the best sight that can reasonably be achieved. Anne will never rival Mary, and the likes of Mrs Churchill and Cornwallis will always shine her down, but she will do. She has the most beautiful hair.

‘Such a lovely chestnut colour,’ says Danvers, as she curls and pins.

‘I have had five gentlemen say so only the last month,’ says Anne. Others have praised her elegant dancing, her musical accomplishments, the colour in her cheeks and – the few that hear it – her beautiful speaking voice. They all know better than to praise anything else, or to send her a private note about it: Maids of Honour are fair game, but princesses, like certain stags, are for royalty alone. Poach one, and you pay the price.

Now Lady Harriet gives the much-praised hair a final tease, and urges her charge into the Guard Chamber. Anne feels the room turning towards her as she is announced; its many inhabitants shuffle back towards the walls and fold themselves; she walks through, giving the occasional nod to she-knows-not-whom, and then repeats the performance in the Presence Chamber. There is bowing and curtsying before her all the way, and much whispering behind.

The King is waiting in the Withdrawing Chamber, so she stops in the doorway, and makes, with all due ceremony, the first curtsy. There is a second curtsy to make halfway across, and a third before the throne, where the King raises her up with his own hand, and presents her to the younger man standing next to him. He is, at first blurry sight, short, fair and stoutish; he is George Ludwig of Hanover.

The short fair man takes a couple of steps forward and bows; Anne curtsies. When she rises she is looking up – a little – into a pair of blue, wide-set and slightly protuberant eyes. The Prince’s face is long and serious, with a strong nose in the middle of it. He is plainly dressed, like the soldier he is. Now he speaks, in good but unmusical French: he is asking the King if he might salute his niece. The King grants his permission; then there is a tight, thickening, leery moment as the Prince leans in to kiss her; his lips on hers feel like a pair of dry, cold cushions, barely third cousins to the kinds of lips she and Mrs Cornwallis like to find in poems, but it makes no difference: the blush has already conquered her face, and settled it, before the Prince is even halfway there. The room applauds them both.

‘Charming,’ he says, in his odd French. ‘I am charmed to meet you.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, remembering her line. ‘It is a pleasure to meet a prince of whom I have heard so much good. Your uncle the Prince of the Rhine has been telling me about your feats on the battlefield.’ His uncle is the King’s cousin Rupert. Anne spent all of yesterday afternoon with him, while he praised his German nephew to her; then he composed a compliment on her behalf, and then stayed just a little longer, so that they might rehearse it together.

‘I have done no more than my duty,’ says the Prince. ‘I for my part have heard that you play beautifully on the harpsichord and guitar, and I hope that I will be able to hear you while I am here.’

As Anne’s supply of given words has now run out, she simply smiles, and inclines her head.

Later that day, she goes to visit Isabella in her chamber, as she has promised to do, to give her an account of the meeting. A succession of winter colds have weakened the child further, confining her to her rooms: she relies more and more on Anne’s visits for what little entertainment she might have. Anne wishes she could tell her a more exciting tale, with a more exciting hero.

‘So you did not think him handsome then?’ asks Isabella, her voice gone small with disappointment.

Anne tries her best. ‘He was not – not handsome,’ she offers.

‘The Prince is most distinguished-looking,’ says Lady Harriet, saying as always the properest thing, ‘and he carries himself like a soldier ought.’

Isabella brightens a little. ‘Has he fought valiantly in the wars? Has he won many a battle?’

‘I believe so,’ says Anne, ‘and I’m sure I could admire that in him.’

‘I am certain he admired Anne,’ says Lady Harriet. ‘He looked very pleased indeed to have saluted her.’

Anne blushes again at the memory.

‘He kissed you?’ asks Isabella. ‘He kissed you then? Oh, then I suppose you will be married.’ She rests her head back on her pillows, looking well satisfied, as though she has arranged matters herself.

‘I do not know,’ says Anne. ‘Perhaps.’

Lady Harriet steps in again. ‘It is not certain.’ She speaks carefully. ‘No marriage can be arranged for your sister while your father is away.’

‘That is vexatious,’ says Isabella. ‘That is most vexatious. Anne should be married. She should be married very soon. If a maid of her years be too long unmarried, then her seed will be retained and she will fall into a mother-fit.’

‘Indeed,’ says Lady Harriet, with a sharp glance at Anne. ‘And where did you come by this interesting piece of knowledge?’

‘In the summer,’ says Isabella, ‘when I heard Mrs Cornwallis reading to my sister.’

‘Is that so?’ Lady Harriet is looking quite steadily at Anne now, and asks her if she can recall the book.

‘No,’ says Anne, ‘I’m afraid I cannot. We read so many.’

But Isabella is delighted to help. ‘I can! I remember very well: the book was called Aristotle’s Masterpiece.’

‘Oh yes, I have heard of that – and I should like very much to see it. Your Highness, do you think you might go to your closet and fetch it for me?’

‘I would be happy to,’ Anne replies, ‘only it is Mrs Cornwallis’s own book – would you have me send to Scotland for it?’

‘No thank you, Your Highness.’ Later, as Anne knows perfectly well, Lady Harriet will have her closet searched. For now, she contents herself by pronouncing Isabella over-excited, and sending Anne out of the room.

The Prince stays for three more months, but gives little reason for any further excitement. Anne is perhaps a little sorry to see him leave, if she thinks about it, but when she weeps that spring, it is for Isabella.