hawthorn bloomed sweetly. Rhododendrons as fine as those at Bourne End began to appear, and then the gates into Windsor Great Park loomed ahead. As the barouche drove through, Helen caught her first glimpse of the town and castle in the distance. The castle looked very white and impressive, framed by a gap in the trees, but then was lost from sight again as the barouche turned sharply northwest along another road.
The two thousand acres of Windsor Great Park were very beautiful indeed, a vista of majestic trees, wide rides, and landscapedperfection. Enjoyed by monarchs throughout many centuries, it now boasted a number of royal residences, including the Prince Regent’s fine new cottage orné , the Royal Lodge, and it was the delight also of the many ladies and gentlemen who rode or drove through its leafy splendor.
Margaret saw Helen’s admiring gaze, and smiled. ‘It’s very lovely, is it not?’
‘Very.’
‘But if you look across that way in a moment, you’ll see a huge copper beech that marks the way to somewhere less lovely.’
Helen followed her sister’s finger and soon perceived the copper beech, and beside it a winding track that swiftly disappeared between rhododendrons. It seemed very innocuous, and she looked inquiringly at her sister. ‘Where does it lead?’
‘To Herne’s Glade. You’ve heard of Herne the Hunter, of course.’
‘Yes. Wasn’t he a ranger in Henry VIII’s time?’
‘A wicked dabbler in things magical, it seems. He is supposed to have hanged himself from an oak in the park, and at times of national danger his ghost appears, complete with antlers, flowing green robes, and an attendant white hart. Our poor King George accidentally ordered an oak tree to be chopped down in 1796, and everyone said it was Herne’s oak, but the truth appears to be that the oak in Herne’s Glade is the real one. The glade is a rather dark and gloomy place, and so has been the natural choice for many gentlemen wishing to face each other in duels.’
Ralph tipped his hat back, smiling a little. ‘It isn’t all melancholy , Miss Fairmead, for there’s an amusing tale attached to the place as well. You’ll no doubt have heard of the letters from Prince Florizel to Perdita?’
‘Yes, they were said to be between the Prince of Wales and the actress, Mrs Robinson.’
‘Correct. Well, most people know of their romantic assignations on a boat moored on the Thames off Kew, but not so many know they also met at the boathouse on Eleanor’s Lake, before it became Hagman’s, of course. When returning at dawn in her carriage from such an assignation, they were startled by the pistol shots of a duel taking place in the glade. Thinking he was bound to be discovered,the prince took off on foot like a greyhound into the bushes, leaving poor Mrs Robinson alone in the carriage. She took fright as well, ordering her coachman to drive on, and as she vanished from sight, the prince saw a white hart coming along the track from the glade. Convinced Herne’s ghost was close behind, he took off again, and since Mrs Robinson had picked him up in her carriage somewhere in Windsor, he now had to get himself back there on foot, skulking into the castle by a postern gate. The humiliating incident is said to have heralded the end of the love affair.’
The copper beech slipped away behind them as the barouche drove on toward the lake and the boathouse. There were other carriages on the road, and many horsemen and women riding across the park, everyone apparently making for the same exclusive destination, the fashionable boathouse that was threatening to surpass Gunter’s of Berkeley Square for excellence.
Hagman’s proved to be a very elegant establishment, painted white and backed by gardens and ornamental trees, while to the front there was a long jetty extending into the lake, with pleasure boats and barges moored along it. Tables and chairs had been set out on the jetty and in the gardens, and most had been
The two thousand acres of Windsor Great Park were very beautiful indeed, a vista of majestic trees, wide rides, and landscapedperfection. Enjoyed by monarchs throughout many centuries, it now boasted a number of royal residences, including the Prince Regent’s fine new cottage orné , the Royal Lodge, and it was the delight also of the many ladies and gentlemen who rode or drove through its leafy splendor.
Margaret saw Helen’s admiring gaze, and smiled. ‘It’s very lovely, is it not?’
‘Very.’
‘But if you look across that way in a moment, you’ll see a huge copper beech that marks the way to somewhere less lovely.’
Helen followed her sister’s finger and soon perceived the copper beech, and beside it a winding track that swiftly disappeared between rhododendrons. It seemed very innocuous, and she looked inquiringly at her sister. ‘Where does it lead?’
‘To Herne’s Glade. You’ve heard of Herne the Hunter, of course.’
‘Yes. Wasn’t he a ranger in Henry VIII’s time?’
‘A wicked dabbler in things magical, it seems. He is supposed to have hanged himself from an oak in the park, and at times of national danger his ghost appears, complete with antlers, flowing green robes, and an attendant white hart. Our poor King George accidentally ordered an oak tree to be chopped down in 1796, and everyone said it was Herne’s oak, but the truth appears to be that the oak in Herne’s Glade is the real one. The glade is a rather dark and gloomy place, and so has been the natural choice for many gentlemen wishing to face each other in duels.’
Ralph tipped his hat back, smiling a little. ‘It isn’t all melancholy , Miss Fairmead, for there’s an amusing tale attached to the place as well. You’ll no doubt have heard of the letters from Prince Florizel to Perdita?’
‘Yes, they were said to be between the Prince of Wales and the actress, Mrs Robinson.’
‘Correct. Well, most people know of their romantic assignations on a boat moored on the Thames off Kew, but not so many know they also met at the boathouse on Eleanor’s Lake, before it became Hagman’s, of course. When returning at dawn in her carriage from such an assignation, they were startled by the pistol shots of a duel taking place in the glade. Thinking he was bound to be discovered,the prince took off on foot like a greyhound into the bushes, leaving poor Mrs Robinson alone in the carriage. She took fright as well, ordering her coachman to drive on, and as she vanished from sight, the prince saw a white hart coming along the track from the glade. Convinced Herne’s ghost was close behind, he took off again, and since Mrs Robinson had picked him up in her carriage somewhere in Windsor, he now had to get himself back there on foot, skulking into the castle by a postern gate. The humiliating incident is said to have heralded the end of the love affair.’
The copper beech slipped away behind them as the barouche drove on toward the lake and the boathouse. There were other carriages on the road, and many horsemen and women riding across the park, everyone apparently making for the same exclusive destination, the fashionable boathouse that was threatening to surpass Gunter’s of Berkeley Square for excellence.
Hagman’s proved to be a very elegant establishment, painted white and backed by gardens and ornamental trees, while to the front there was a long jetty extending into the lake, with pleasure boats and barges moored along it. Tables and chairs had been set out on the jetty and in the gardens, and most had been
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