She hesitated. He looked too peaceful to disturb, but she could never lie to him. She half-whispered the name. ‘Marie Antoinette. The Queen of France.’
George paused, a spoon half-way between his lips.
‘She wrote to me, you see,’ she explained. ‘But I haven’t replied. I wouldn’t, without your permission.’
George placed the spoon in his mouth and swished gruel around his cheeks. He did not look at Charlotte. ‘Do you want to write back?’
She put down her bowl, cold under the weight of his displeasure. He was testing her and she knew it. ‘My darling, I will do whatever you wish.’
He sighed. Wrinkles, extenuated by the shadows, furrowed his high forehead. ‘Reply to her if you must. I have no objection. But she must be an impertinent sort of woman, to approach you after the role her country played in the American war.’
She scolded herself for sending him down this path of thought again. He seemed to have aged ten years since the loss of America.
‘I thought I would rather have died than seen my colonies lost,’ he continued. ‘But America is gone and here we are, forced to carry on.’
‘Such things are sent to try us. We’ll come out the other side stronger and happier. You’ll see.’
He put a morsel of bread in his mouth and chewed on it meditatively. ‘I thought—’ he shook his head, batting away some dark cloud. ‘I tried. I tried to make the Crown respectable, as my father told me to. But there have been so many riots since I came to the Crown: about the silk, about the Catholics, about John Wilkes. Do the people hate me?’
‘Oh, George!’ Charlotte gathered him to her and leant his head against her shoulder. ‘You must not despair,’ she whispered into his scalp. He looked so vulnerable without a wig, the hair cropped close, sticking up in little tufts that put her in mind of a baby bird.
‘The Americans called me a tyrant!’ He laughed grimly into her nightdress. ‘Does that describe me, Charlotte? Does that describe your husband?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I am married to the best man alive.’
They remained silent for a moment, holding one another. Nothing but touch could heal the pain of the past few years. They had struggled on, surviving only for each other. Charlotte clung onto him, watching the candle as it burnt low and started to spit.
‘Well! At least you love me, eh?’ George chuckled. ‘Even if the Americans loathe me, even if those damned Whigs try to storm my Parliament?’
‘I will always love you,’ she said earnestly. ‘And I will always be here.’
He looked up into her eyes. Just then, the candle guttered and blinked out.
Lower Lodge, Windsor
‘Now, what part comes next?’ Royal looked encouragingly into the face before her, with its big blue eyes and flaxen curls.
‘The German provinces!’ Sophia declared.
Royal smiled. ‘That’s right! Clever girl! These bits here.’
Royal sorted a few small, irregular shapes from the jigsaw chest and spread them on her lap. Each one was a reproach to her – another place she had failed to visit. When would her turn come? When would she see more than shapes on a map? It made her sad to watch Sophia sorting through jigsaw pieces. Her little sister would be trapped in the palaces too, with nothing but dull days ahead of her.
Sophia picked up one of the smallest shapes and inspected it in the candlelight. It was the province of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.
‘That’s where Mama comes from,’ Royal told her. ‘Isn’t it tiny? Can you guess where it goes?’ Sophia puzzled over the spaces left on the floor. Royal sighed. She knew the layout of the entire globe like the back of her hand, but she had yet to set foot outside of England.
Mary sat plucking a doll in her hands. ‘Let’s stop doing this. It’s boring.’ Royal despaired of her. If Mary found the games of childhood boring, she would be in for a great shock when she grew into a young woman.
The clock chimed on the mantelpiece, reminding Royal that it was time to visit their parents in the castle. The customary feeling of dread pulled at her, a chain coiled about her chest. She was never free. Always ordered here and there, always at the beck and call of another.
Mrs Cheveley scratched on the door with a rattle and the three princesses rose to their feet. It would be another evening of dramatic readings, watching the Queen for permission to laugh or applaud. Together, the governess and Royal wrapped Sophia and Mary up against the cold and ushered them into the night air.
The moon rode full and round. A light wind fluttered the ribbons in Royal’s hair. She took a deep breath and gazed out into the distance, trying to imagine she was in another place. Somewhere out there was the land she would travel to and claim as her own, and the lover who would woo her under starlight. She needed them now; she needed to get away.
Restricted by her gown, she fell a little behind Mrs Cheveley and the girls. Sophia’s head bobbed in the distance, a rogue curl escaping her cap and floating on the breeze. But then another movement flickered in the corner of her eye.
Crossing the park, far from the castle torches, was the figure of a young man. He saw Royal and stopped. For a moment, she thought she had wished her future husband into life and summoned him there. The silhouetted figure hesitated. Then it moved toward her. The towers and turrets of the castle threw black shapes against the night sky. With every few steps, the man glanced furtively at the windows, like a prisoner fleeing the dungeons. But as he came closer, Royal saw he was no fugitive: he was her brother. She cried out his name and started to run.
‘George!’ she embraced him. ‘What are you doing here? Have you come to see Mrs Siddons play for us?’
‘The deuce I have!’ He reared back. His face was florid, his abundant hair even frizzier than usual. Apprehension settled beneath Royal’s ribs like a stone. Not another quarrel.
‘I wouldn’t go in there to save my soul,’ he vowed. ‘I’m just going to dine at the inn, then I’ll be back on my way to town.’
Royal recoiled, stung. If only he would try, just try, to keep the peace. ‘Were you not going to visit us? We see so little of you.’
‘That’s not my fault. The old man hates me, you know he does.’
She pressed her lips together. There it was again, the ripping feeling inside as she tried to reconcile her love for her brother with her loyalty to the King. She looked away toward the grey hulk of the castle. George’s eyes burned into her. He wanted her to agree, to complain about the King – but she would never speak against her father.
‘I suppose you’ve heard about my allowance?’ His voice dripped with bitterness. ‘Parliament granted me a hundred thousand a year. He made them reduce it to fifty.’
‘The taxes are so high . . .’
‘Do not try to talk of politics,’ he scoffed. ‘That’s not his real motive and you know it.’
Royal clenched her hands. How could she make this young man, addicted to luxury, understand the hardship of royal policy? It wasn’t as if their father lived a sumptuous lifestyle. He would manage very well on fifty thousand a year.
‘What does Mama say?’
George leant both hands on his cane. ‘She says I must behave well enough to deserve the King’s friendship. You know that’s not her talking. He is behind it all; he poisons her against me.’
Royal sighed. There was no arguing against his paranoia. She wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. If even their mother, who adored George beyond reason, was on the King’s side, he should listen. But he never would.
‘What will you do then?’
He grunted and straightened up. ‘If he wants me to be in debt, I will be in debt. I have Carlton House now. I can redecorate the whole place.’
Why must he behave like a child? A man of twenty-one, the eldest of them all! She knew she could not stop him. It was like chasing a horse that had already bolted.
‘Do not run up more debt,’ she whispered feebly. ‘Please. Mary asks for you every day.
Forget Carlton House and come back here. Ignore the parents – come back for us. We need you.’
They really did. Of all the brothers, George was the only one who remained in England. Frederick, William and Edward all fought in the armed forces, while Ernest, Augustus and Adolphus studied abroad. George was the princesses’ only hope for the future, their only advocate with the Queen. But he was also selfish.
Ignoring Royal’s appeal, he adjusted the beaver hat on his head. He gave her a cold peck on the cheek and stalked away.
‘George! Please!’ Her voice rang shrill and panicked in the night air. She could not believe he would be so heartless. But he kept walking, thrashing the grass with his cane. The lights of Windsor town glowed faintly in the distance.
Empty with despair, Royal watched him reach a slope and start to climb. A dark cloud glided across the moon, obscuring her view. In another moment he had disappeared over the brow of the hill and Royal was alone in the dark.
CHAPTER THREE
Kew Gardens
1785
A milky heat haze hung over the gardens. Bluebells stretched out in a carpet before the cottage, winding round the menagerie and off into green shade. Sweat trickled down Charlotte’s neck beneath her lace lappets. She blotted at her forehead with a handkerchief.
‘Where are we up to?’ she asked Royal.
A gazebo sheltered them from the sun’s fierce rays. The table in front of them was littered with Charlotte’s projects; unanswered letters from the French queen, a catalogue of furniture, Lord Bute’s botanical tables and a herbarium.
Royal sanded her writing and turned to another book. Running her finger along a column, she stopped halfway down the page. ‘Strelitzia reginae.’
Charlotte lifted her flushed cheeks in a smile. She was still flattered they had named this flower from the Cape of Good Hope in her honour. ‘Ah, you haven’t seen this yet, have you? Fetch it,’ she ordered a servant.
Royal put her pencils in order and checked her paint brushes while she waited. Charlotte glanced at Augusta and Elizabeth over by the menagerie, sketchbooks in hand. The animals, tired by the heat, stood still and allowed them to make detailed studies.
The servant returned carrying a bright orange flower, spiky and bird-like, with an azure blue nectary. Charlotte took it reverently in her hands and stroked the waxen petals. ‘Look. Have you ever seen anything like it?’
Royal shook her head. ‘Can I draw it, before we start?’
‘Of course. But don’t knock it. I want a perfect pressing – stem included.’
Royal sifted through her books until she found her sketch pad. Opening it, she flicked through the pages. Flowers, cupids, ladies, cattle . . . Charlotte’s breath locked in her throat as an image shot before her eyes, as quick as a blink.
‘What’s that?’
‘Sorry?’
Charlotte reached out for the sketchpad. With shaking hands, she pushed the pages back until she found the drawing. There. It was like staring into the past. Flaxen curls, peachy skin. A little pouting mouth. Suddenly the sun was unbearably bright. Charlotte squinted. ‘You drew Octavius.’
Royal nodded, fear carved on her face
Charlotte did not want to worry her daughter, but it took all her strength not to slam the pad back on the table and burst into tears. Every time she came close to forgetting, to being happy again, a ghost reared up. How did other mothers cope with loss? The pain was unutterable.
‘It is good.’ She squeezed the praise out of her dry mouth. ‘Very like.’ It was torture to put the pad down; like having the child wrenched from her arms all over again. But she managed to place it before Royal and turn over a new page.
‘I wanted to give it to Papa,’ Royal explained. ‘For his birthday.’
Charlotte swallowed. If the drawing had this effect upon her, it would destroy George.
‘Wait a while,’ she advised. ‘He has enough to try his nerves with the Danish and American ambassadors visiting.’
‘I thought they seemed nice.’
Sometimes Royal was so oblivious that Charlotte wanted to hit her. Nice had nothing to do with it. She struggled for the right words. ‘Your aunt’s terrible marriage in Denmark . . . the loss of America . . . the loss of Octavius . . . it is pulling too hard on one painful chord.’
Royal nodded. With a sigh, she positioned the flower and began to draw, her pencil scratching across the page.
Charlotte used the silence to regain her shattered composure. The air was hot and close, stifling the scent of flowers until she could only smell leather from the books and the faint tang of animal dung. Picking up her cup of orange tea, she took a sip of the bitter liquid and exhaled. It failed to calm her nerves. She wished she had some snuff.
She was painfully aware that little Amelia, so small and vulnerable, was not beside her. Wild fears galloped through her mind: the baby might suffocate in her sleep, or choke on pap. Her gaze drifted in a semi-circle, back to Augusta and Elizabeth. But they were not sketching now. Elizabeth leant against the fence, one hand on her side.
‘Eliza?’
Royal’s pencil came to a halt. Charlotte set her cup clattering down and took off toward the menagerie, dread snapping at her heels.
‘What is it?’ Charlotte demanded.
‘Oh, Mama, you will make her listen.’ Augusta removed her straw hat and wiped her sweating brow. ‘Elizabeth’s been getting this pain in her side for days. She has to sit and rest.’
Charlotte forced Elizabeth to lean on her shoulder. Her daughter’s face constricted with agony and Charlotte’s heart clenched with it.
‘It will pass in a moment, Mama. It always does.’
‘I don’t care. You are going to sit down.’ She dragged Elizabeth away from the fence. Servants ran to help. A donkey in the menagerie jumped at the noise and brayed. The wheezing, heaving sound stopped Charlotte in her tracks. Limp with fear, she yielded Elizabeth to the servants and watched them take her into the shade of the gazebo.
Augusta placed a hot, sticky hand on her shoulder. ‘Mama? What is it?’
Charlotte shook her head. She couldn’t tell Augusta what she feared. She couldn’t tell the girl that she had a taint in her blood.
The donkey’s laboured, grating bray called up unwelcome images of Charlotte’s mother-in-law, withering in a state bedchamber. A cancer of the mouth, the doctor had said. Charlotte could still hear the rattle in her old, wrinkled throat, could still see her skin turning blue as she struggled for air. It was only after the funeral that Charlotte heard the rumours: scrofula lurking in the blood. A fatal inheritance of scars, swelling and consumption. Now it was in the veins of her children. Had the Saxe-Gotha blood killed Alfred? Octavius? Charlotte shuddered and took Augusta’s hand.
Under the gazebo, Royal dabbed lavender water at Elizabeth’s temples and waved smelling salts under her nose.
‘Will she faint?’
Elizabeth brushed them away. ‘I’m well, I’m well. I need a moment to catch my breath is all. I’ve spent too long in the heat.’
Charlotte sat beside her daughter and poured her a cup of orange tea. Her trembling hands made the china chink. ‘If you are unwell, I will cancel the concert.’
Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow. ‘And offend all the ambassadors?’
‘I would. You know I would.’
Elizabeth screwed up her face and lifted the cup. The movement clearly hurt her. ‘We must go, Mama,’ she gasped. ‘Papa needs us.’
George. Lost in motherly worry, Charlotte had almost forgotten about him. She pictured the strutting American and the cool, insinuating man from Copenhagen. Elizabeth was right. The King needed them. Everything must bow to that.
She nodded reluctantly. As she gave her silent consent, uneasiness trickled down her chest and settled deep in her stomach.
Windsor Castle
Boredom. It was the constant spectre through Royal’s life: a heavy, suffocating oppression, tighter than any corset.
It was
half-past nine; the ancient music concert had droned on for half an hour and showed no indication of stopping. Royal tried to block out the whine of the strings, wondering why her mother and father looked so entranced. It all sounded the same as last month.
The King tapped his foot in time to the tune, holding the Queen’s hand. Only the two of them had seats; the courtiers stood around drooping and trying to switch feet inconspicuously.
A cough tickled Royal’s throat and it would have to scratch away there unrelieved for at least another hour. She was not just trapped in the castle – she was trapped in her own body. No noise, no sign of humanity could escape her.
There were many people pressed close about her – smart young men in spangled waistcoats, with breeches down to their knees and shapely calves. They raised quizzing glasses to their eyes and tossed back the queues of their wigs as she wavered, but they dared not speak to her. Royal saw her old friend Lady Harriot, newly married and growing a prominent bump beneath her purple lute gown. Envy almost choked the breath from her.
All of a sudden, a mighty crash jarred her back into the room. Royal’s fan flew to the floor as the music screeched to a halt. She looked up and saw the orchestra frozen, hands paused in mid-air. What was it? Before Royal could turn, a mass of white-powdered wigs, feathers and flowers blocked her view. The courtiers, hitherto so silent, buzzed like flies. Apprehension stole along Royal’s flesh and she shivered.
‘What is it?’ her father’s voice sliced through the hubbub. ‘What has happened?’
His presence parted the courtiers like the Red Sea. A low whisper rippled through the room. Royal strained her neck, trying to see. Papa would make it right. Papa would solve any problem. . .
‘Your Majesty!’
A figure lay prostrate, twitching against the hard stone floor. Pearls and shimmering taffeta settled around it in a pool.
The bodies before Royal shifted; she made out another lady kneeling at the girl’s head, dabbing away with scented water. The restorative had no effect.
‘Dear God!’
Queen of Bedlam Page 2