The weather was grey; a blank sky bearing down through the windows. With a great sigh, Royal waved off her ladies, straightened her necklace and adjusted her frizzed hair around the moulding cushion placed on her scalp. Her reflection lacked so much. The enormity of it was overwhelming. She shook her head dolefully at the square face, long nose and jaded eyes. It would have to do.
As she rose from her stool, there was a tap on the door. Lady Waldegrave opened it to reveal Miss Burney beaming.
‘Happy birthday, Your Royal Highness. The Queen has sent me to bring you and Miss Gouldsworthy down – if you are ready?’
Royal painted on a smile. ‘I am at the Queen’s pleasure.’
The governess and the princess shared the same birthday, Saint Michael’s day. Royal hoped ardently, as she met Miss Gouldsworthy on the landing, that they would not share the fate of spinsterhood.
They descended the stairs arm-in-arm, just as the Queen wanted. Everyone was gathered in the hallway, foremost among them the Queen, her face radiant as she clapped her slim hands together.
‘So! Here are my two Michaelmas geese!’ To Royal’s astonishment, her mother wrapped her in a light embrace and brushed dry lips against her cheek. Such a careless show of affection in public was highly unusual. ‘Come, come. Your presents are all laid out in my morning room.’ The Queen laughed feverishly, and with one dizzy movement, turned and swept down the corridor. Royal raised her eyebrows at her sister Augusta, who laughed and shrugged. The princesses fell into line, walking sedately in the wake of their mother. With the tact she had learnt from the cradle, Royal took Elizabeth’s arm, moved her head close to her hair and whispered through the corner of her mouth.
‘Why is Mama so merry?’
‘She has not stopped all day. Early this morning she found out Mrs Siddons cannot come to read the comedy she promised you. She has been running about like a thing possessed, making alternative arrangements.’
‘What is happening instead, then?’
Elizabeth pulled a face. ‘You won’t like it much. A concert. But you must try to seem grateful. She’s made Fischer come down to play the oboe, and all the Windsor singers. She tried very hard.’
Royal groaned. ‘The usual set up I expect – eight till midnight with only one tea interval?’
‘I wish it was shorter. I think Papa needs to rest.’
‘Papa?’ Royal’s whisper came out a pitch higher than she intended. All worry about the concert was obliterated instantly. ‘Is he all right?’
‘I trust so – I hope so,’ Elizabeth said dubiously. ‘He showed me this rash on his arm. Royal, it looks like it has been scoured – great red wheals breaking up through the skin – I never saw anything like it. I told him to take care, but you know what he’s like. He’s been out walking all morning in the damp grass. Mama is very worried. That’s why she’s so – well . . . you know.’
Royal nodded. This would not be a very happy birthday. She managed to conceal her worries as she opened presents – taking care to gasp and exclaim over each one. None of her family could buy her what her soul craved. She would give all the diamond rings and enamel watch-chains to be married and free. But for now there was only tea and cake.
The ladies of the family had just finished their refreshments when her father came into the room. With all his usual good humour, he threw his arms around Royal and hugged her close.
‘Twenty-two years – eh? How did that happen? Can you believe it, my love – twenty-two?’
‘Indeed I cannot,’ said her mother. ‘How soon they grow – and we grow – old!’
The King laughed and released Royal. She slunk back down in her chair. If so much time had passed, why had they not arranged a marriage for her?
‘I’m not too old,’ insisted the King, ‘not so old that I cannot do a bit of farming, what? I’ve been hard at it all morning. Best to plant now for the spring. When I’m a little better and we get back to Kew, I’ll have to make a start there too, what?’
Concern clouded the happy atmosphere of the room. Cold needles pricked Royal’s neck. She turned to the Queen, who looked uneasy, but only compressed her lips.
Elizabeth was brave enough to contradict him. ‘If you do not rest, Papa,’ she said, ‘you shan’t get better. Have you had breakfast? There is some tea left . . .’ She stood to fetch it, but he dismissed her.
‘Oh, I’ve had a biscuit. I’ll have something else later. Can’t stop now – I’ve come to take the Princess Royal for a drive on her birthday!’
Royal laid a hand on his arm. His skin burned through the layers of his shirt and jacket. ‘Really Papa, I am in no hurry. Sit and have a drink. Or at least go and change your stockings. It looks damp out there.’
Now the King was close to Royal, she saw that the whites of his eyes were custard yellow. Light-red patches mottled his face and put her in mind of the rash Elizabeth had mentioned. He needed a doctor. Why did the Queen not say something?
‘No, no, no,’ he growled. ‘Lots to do today. Must attend to business. Can’t make your Mama late for her concert.’
The girls turned to their mother expectantly, knowing only she would be able to stop him. With the greatest composure, the Queen dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin and laid it back on the table in silence.
Royal nearly cried out in disbelief. Before she could speak, the King dragged her up and pulled her from the room. His grip bit into her arm.
‘Come! Come!’
Royal looked desperately back over her shoulder at the Queen, unable to believe she would let her husband go out in this feverish state. She gave Royal a weak smile and took a pinch of snuff.
The White House, Kew
The time for pretence was over. Charlotte had endeavoured to block out the truth but it was a labour all in vain. George was not himself, whatever she told his ministers to the contrary. She had to acknowledge he was beyond even her reach – and the thought made her feel like a lost child.
He paced up and down in the candlelight, his bare feet slapping against the boards. Charlotte was in bed and ready to sleep, but he didn’t notice her. He was a being of another world – an odd, ghostly figure in the dark room, one hand resting on his mouth and fiddling with his lips. Back and forth, back and forth, his nightshirt flapping at his knees. Stripped of his wig, boots and spangled jacket, he appeared frail and diminished.
Charlotte had seen him upset, distracted and angry before, but never quite like this. An icy fear inside her stomach forbade her from asking what was wrong. Paralysed by anxiety she could only sit, uselessly, her eyes following him around the room. What was happening to him? Without warning, he spun on his heel and marched toward her. He threw up the covers, sending a cold draft across Charlotte, and hit the bed hard, making her bounce.
He did not look at her. For once she was glad of it. ‘I beg you will not speak to me,’ he said, his voice muffled into the pillow. ‘You must not speak to me. I’ve heard a dreadful rumour about George and a Catholic woman. But we cannot discuss that tonight. We must not talk of it, for if we do I will not sleep. I never sleep anymore – no, hardly one minute, and talking will only make it worse. No talking, no talking. Make sure you do not say a word. We will talk tomorrow – tomorrow. Now sleep.’ With a violent jerk, he sat up and blew out the candle.
Charlotte remained immobile in the pitch black, trying to understand. She did not want to move. She knew it was ridiculous, but the prospect of settling down in bed and laying her head on the pillow beside George scared her. She had the premonition that if she closed her eyelids, if she fell asleep, something bad would happen. Something very, very bad . . .
A guttural, animal noise woke her. Charlotte thrashed her limbs, completely disorientated, until she sensed the pressure of a pillow against her cheek.
The cry came again, a horrendous blend of a gasp and a scream.
George.
Fully awake in an instant, she crawled up on her knees and turned to face her husband.
He sat beside her, bent double and clutching his stomach. As she leant toward him, she heard him rasp for breath.
‘George?’
Pain ripped across his features. Just like her baby boys, as they drew their last gasps. Charlotte froze, staring at him, lost in the horror of the moment.
A sudden spasm shook the bed and George kicked out, screaming. She jumped down and stumbled wildly across the dark floor.
She hurled herself into the corridor and ran, a startled deer blinking in the harsh light. She fell into the pages’ room, relieved to see five solid men in this frightful nightmare.
Help me.
George’s page Stillingfleet stammered at her; a young man with sandy hair whom she did not recognise went red and cast his eyes down.
‘Retire, for God’s sake retire!’ Murray said, and the others turned, retreating from the scandal of their undressed Queen and filtering out through the door.
No! No! Stop! Charlotte lunged to grab the sleeve of embarrassed young man. He didn’t meet her frantic eyes. ‘The King!’ she shrieked. ‘A surgeon! You must go for the surgeon – go to Richmond!’
Stillingfleet stopped in his tracks. His face grew pale. He whispered hurriedly to Murray, who nodded and sped through the door.
‘Of course, Your Majesty, of course.’ Stillingfleet returned to her side, gentle now. ‘Will you not sit down?’
Charlotte could not loosen her grip on the boy’s coat. As Stillingfleet gestured to a chair, clarity hit her like a bowl of water thrown over her face. It was night, it was cold, and she, the Queen of England, was standing in a servant’s room wearing nothing but her nightdress. She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to sound more composed. ‘Yes.’ She sat on the very edge of the chair, leaning forward. Terror shook her limbs. Gotha blood. It had to be. The diseased blood of the King’s mother had come to claim him. She stared at the intricate pattern on the carpet as something solid to hold her gaze. The coloured shapes swirled and merged. Time passed.
It was only when a shawl touched her goose-pimpled shoulders that she came back to life. She looked up to see Lady Courtown and Lady Townshend bending over her. She had not noticed them come in.
‘The King . . .’
‘Mr Dundas arrived about ten minutes ago,’ Lady Courtown told her, fluffing the cushions behind her back. ‘God knows it took him long enough. Can you imagine dawdling for half an hour before coming to the aid of your sovereign?’
Charlotte only absorbed a handful of words. ‘He is here? What does he say?’ She set her teeth against a dreadful diagnosis. Dear God, he could not die. What would become of her?
‘The gout, probably,’ said Lady Courtown with a sage nod. She took Charlotte’s hand and chafed it. ‘Cramps in the legs, shooting pains in his stomach. Dundas managed to get some senna into the King but nothing else. He won’t swallow the strong stuff.’
Charlotte could not accept her ladies’ brisk optimism – it stuck in her gullet.
‘He is no better,’ she said. It was a statement, not a question.
Lady Courtown sighed. ‘No, Your Majesty.’
‘Then you must fetch Frederick. Frederick will make him swallow the medicine. The King will do anything for him.’
‘Sir George Baker is already on his way to—’
‘No!’ Charlotte yelled. Her companions flinched at her side. How could they be so calm, so foolish, when death stalked her husband? ‘Do you not see it must be Frederick? You must get him. You must!’ Her chest heaved, smothering her words, and tears cascaded down her taut face.
It was a sweet relief to cry at last. A moment – just a moment – to be a wife instead of a Queen. But she knew it would not last for long. With George indisposed, every duty would fall on her, no matter how her heart ached. She would need to sign papers, order servants, watch his doctors with a hawk’s eye. She must not fail him now. She would not.
CHAPTER SIX
The White House, Kew
Winter 1788
Steam rose from the tea urn. Cold meats, cheese and bread sat on the table. Even the scent of them made Charlotte feel sick.
In the few days since George’s fit, a swarm of doctors had descended on Kew, soberly dressed, leather bags in hand. It was abundantly clear to Charlotte that they did not know what they were talking about. The truth was, they had never seen anything like this illness. It was not colic, not gout, not fever – but it had symptoms of them all. And if the doctors did not know what it was, how could they cure it?
Madame Schwellenberg placed a cup of bone china before her. Charlotte screwed up her nose as another lady poured in dark, sharp-smelling tea. She didn’t drink it, but sat, cradling the cup in her hands.
She was utterly lost. Without her husband to lean on, the court felt like a stark, lonely place. It was all in her hands. She had decisions to make and she could only pray they were ones that George would approve of when he was well again.
Bumps sounded on the floorboards upstairs, followed by raised voices. Charlotte’s ladies froze.
‘He is insisting on going to Windsor,’ she told them. ‘He will not be put off.’
Lady Pembroke pursed her lips. ‘It is difficult. He is the King. They cannot just tell him what to do.’
‘They should. They should insist on him staying. He is not well enough for the journey.’ Charlotte rubbed her itching eyes. She had pleaded with the doctors to keep him still. The suggestion could not seem to come from Charlotte – George would think she was undermining him – but he had to stay put. She dreaded to think of the reaction in London, when he was seen in this state.
‘Have you heard from the princes?’ Lady Courtown asked.
‘My sons say they will meet us in Windsor. I wish they would come here instead. Frederick would persuade the King to stay put, I know it.’
‘The Prince of Wales is coming too?’
Charlotte met Lady Courtown’s troubled expression. They were all fearful of the meeting between father and son. On the best of days, the King found the Prince of Wales’s presence irksome. His debts, his dabbling in foreign politics and his friendship with the radical, unkempt politician, Charles Fox, were all triggers to the King’s temper. Would the sight of the prince bring on more spasms? She tightened her grip on her cup. ‘Yes. I need the Prince of Wales by me.’
Where else should the heir to the throne be, except at his parents’ side in a time of crisis? If the worst were to happen, and the King were to die . . . A tear ran down her cheek and dropped into her untouched tea.
What if the rumours were true? Gossipmongers said her beloved eldest son had married a Catholic widow. A papist called Mrs Fitzherbert could never be Queen. Young George would lose all claim to the throne with such a union.
The sound of feet pounding down the stairs startled her. She stood, sending her cup flying. It bounced off a plate, shattered, and clattered to the floor in jagged fragments. A brown tea stain trickled down the tablecloth and spread across the carpet. Shouts and screams tore down the hall. As Charlotte’s pulse accelerated, she sped toward the door. She was about to put her weight on the handle when it swung outwards, knocking her off balance.
The King caught her and pushed her back into the room. ‘I knew it! I knew you hadn’t left me!’
What had happened to him? The transformation was sudden and complete. He wore nothing but stockings and a nightshirt, revealing peppered, blotchy skin. Reeking of mustard and body odour, he fell on his knees before Charlotte and clung to her legs. Before she could speak, doctors and equerries streamed into the room. They dragged the screaming King to his feet. Charlotte’s ladies backed right up against the walls, crushing their gowns and curls. She was left alone in the melee of grappling men. As she watched them dive and swoop at her dishevelled husband, anger eclipsed her fear. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Let him be. He is your King.’
Sir George Baker reached the threshold, panting. His fat face was scarlet as he straightened his wig. ‘My apologies, Your Majesty. A f
ever took him and we couldn’t control him.’
‘Control him?’ Charlotte cried. ‘His Majesty does not need to be controlled like an animal!’
To prove her point, she turned and took a step toward George. Catching sight of her, he fell limp in the arms of his pages. What were they putting him through? She had a mind to dismiss them all instantly. As she edged forward, George hunched, like a cat raising its hackles. His eye gave no gleam of recognition – he was the quarry, awaiting its predator. Beads of sweat stood out on his mottled forehead. How could this be?
‘There now,’ she said. It was the tone she used to soothe her dogs. ‘Your Majesty can sit and be calm. Can’t you?’
In a heartbeat, George launched himself from the hands of his servants and grappled Charlotte to the floor. She screamed as her head knocked against the carpet. A hairpin stuck painfully into her scalp. Suddenly, George’s lips were upon hers and his tongue forced its way into her mouth. It was a desperate, sickly kiss.
‘They’re trying to take you from me,’ he whispered. ‘They want to separate us.’
It was hard to breathe. Charlotte gulped in air but it didn’t inflate her lungs. ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘You are ill. They are keeping you in bed to recover.’
He clasped her hands; wrung them so hard it hurt. ‘Don’t believe it. They have sent the little ones away.’
‘No, George. I sent the girls to Windsor. I didn’t want them to worry about their Papa.’
Shock, and something like displeasure, flickered across his face. But in the next instant, the pages, Murray and Stillingfleet, hauled him from her. Her ladies moved in to put her on her feet and straighten her gown. She stood still as a doll and let them do it. Her thoughts were paralysed, smashed onto the floor with her pearls and headdress.
Queen of Bedlam Page 4