Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  ‘Don’t let them take me from you, Charlotte! Don’t let them.’

  Charlotte’s heart lurched. He was as piteous as a child. A wave of tenderness brought her to life and she called out across the wall of people between them. ‘You are safe, my love, you are safe! I will come and sit with you later.’

  Sir George Baker gestured for Lady Pembroke to follow him to the door. He whispered something in her ear, and she replied with a nod. She was about to return to Charlotte when the King’s sweating hand darted out and grabbed her. The force of the action whirled Lady Pembroke round. Her throat worked convulsively against a pearl necklace.

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  The King stared at her, mouth ajar. He breathed out in a wheezing hiss of air. ‘My dear Lady Pembroke. I thought it was you.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You are well?’

  Lady Pembroke looked at Charlotte for help. She had none to give. This man wasn’t the husband she could read with a glance.

  Lady Pembroke stuttered. ‘Yes, I thank you, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Good. Good. You are a good girl. I know you will look after the Queen.’ He strained in the pages’ arms and kissed Lady Pembroke’s hand. His lips lingered over her trembling fingers for an instant. Charlotte watched him, unable to believe her eyes. Then he dropped Lady Pembroke’s hand and let his pages sweep him from the room.

  Windsor

  Sophia, Mary and Amelia stood shivering on the drive in their capes, awaiting the King’s carriage. Sophia stamped her feet to force blood back into her toes. No one would tell her anything. The tight-lipped silence of her governess, Miss Gouldsworthy, was frustrating and Sophia resented being kept in the dark. It was her own father, for God’s sake – had she not some right to know?

  Wasted leaves clung to the trees around her, ready to drop. Sophia felt equally suspended, waiting for the fall. She’d only received a few letters from her sisters, cautiously worded. They said the King had gout and went to the levee with his swollen legs wrapped in flannel. Sophia had no more information. She knew that mere gout would not cause the Queen to send her, Mary and Amelia away. She thought of the newspaper discarded in the housekeeper’s room and wished she had stolen it.

  Wheels rattled in the distance and, gradually, the chopping of hooves could be heard. Sophia held herself rigid, breathing in shallow puffs. They were coming. The carriage appeared and the gates peeled open with a metallic grate. The vehicle coming slowly up the drive looked more like a hearse. It drew to a halt in front of Sophia, throwing a shadow over her.

  The King, the Queen, Royal, Augusta and Elizabeth sat crammed in together with no attendant. Sophia peered in through the curtains at the window, struggling with her short-sightedness. The minute she saw her father’s face, she fell back with a cry. Swollen veins made a purple web of his skin. Only one cheek was clean shaven; a grey fuzz crept up the other. Her mother used all her strength to hold him back in his seat. In her ten years, Sophia had never seen her parents like this and it took the breath from her. It was a forbidden, obscene glimpse into an adult world she knew nothing about. She didn’t want to see any more.

  The footmen opened the carriage door and let down the steps with all their usual ceremony. The King broke free and half-hobbled, half-fell onto the pavement. Looking up at the terrifying, alien figure, Sophia, Mary and Amelia performed their curtseys with shaking legs.

  ‘Papa?’ Sophia took a step forward and put out a hand. It quivered but she kept it there, reaching toward him. Her real father must be in there somewhere. A gentle touch, a kind word, would revive him. It had to. But he stared at her with eyes warped from their usual blue to something like blackcurrant jelly. He opened his damp mouth as if to speak – and began gasping for breath. Sophia couldn’t move. She couldn’t take back her hand. Her heart threatened to break through her ribcage as she sensed this was very wrong . . .

  Without warning the King burst into hysterical sobs and clutched at his body. He looked as if he was being attacked by a swarm of bees. Sophia stepped back, pulling Amelia with her. The Queen had been right to keep him away. He was dangerous.

  He threw off his hat and gloves. Noticing the cane in his hand, he hurled it like a spear, forcing Miss Gouldsworthy to dive away, screaming. He paused for an instant. Then he ran. The tableau around Sophia leapt into life; her sisters jumped out of the carriage and scooped the younger girls into their arms. Sophia fell into Augusta’s embrace. Her sister’s soft touch was the only thing she could relate to. The world had changed in an instant. Without her parents’ authority and self-control, there was no order – she was lost.

  The Queen took off down the drive in the wake of her husband, pearls and jewels falling from her head as she ran. Sophia sobbed. For the poised, proper and elegant Queen to make this spectacle of herself, it must be the very end of the world. At last the Queen caught him, her determination and speed triumphing over his confused fears. Sophia saw her place a hand on each of the King’s shoulders and draw his forehead to her own.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. Her face belied the words. The King said something Sophia could not hear, but whatever it was, the Queen shook her head at it emphatically. ‘We must bear up under all afflictions,’ she told him. ‘God will not test His servants beyond what they can bear.’

  The stance of the King softened. Sophia dared to hope. Her mother would cure him. Her mother could do anything. ‘Ah!’ he replied sadly. ‘My Charlotte. I see you are prepared for the worst.’

  And he took the Queen in his arms.

  Upper Lodge, Windsor

  They could not keep him still. If he would remain in the Upper Lodge and submit to the purges, he might get better. But he was too strong for the doctors. Camphor julep did nothing to sedate him. If all else failed, they would have to tie him down. Charlotte covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

  It had happened so quickly. One day she was obeying his orders, the next planning how to restrain him. To restrain George. The reality hadn’t sunk in, but Charlotte thanked God for it. When the truth really hit, she knew it would crash her against the rocks. Determined to bring him back to the sickroom, she asked for her stout boots and a furlined pelisse. Her ladies received her delicate silk gloves, which she exchanged for woollen mittens.

  ‘You cannot go alone,’ said Lady Courtown.

  Charlotte rubbed her thumb over the cross at her neck and raised it to her lips. ‘I would not put any of you through such scenes.’

  A hand rested on Charlotte’s arm. She turned to face Lady Pembroke.

  ‘Your Majesty, let me attend you. The King knows me of old. He will not be violent with me.’

  Charlotte faltered. The idea of a friend by her side, a hand to steady her, was tempting. ‘My dear, he is not . . . he is not like himself.’

  She watched the lines deepen in Lady Pembroke’s face; little claws around the eyes, stripes across her forehead. ‘Your Majesty, you know what my husband was. A drunkard and a villain. I bore that. I can bear an ill King.’

  On impulse, Charlotte kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  Madame Schwellenberg placed a hat over Charlotte’s hair and wound a calash around it, muttering in German. She’d noticed a white streak in Charlotte’s hair a few days ago. It didn’t matter. Charlotte had never quite been a beauty – and what good were looks without George to see them?

  Charlotte and Lady Pembroke walked down the wide stone staircase, their heels clicking in unison and echoing through the hall. Tension held them mute. As the men in livery, standing either side of the double doors, threw them open, Charlotte bowed her head and pulled Lady Pembroke out into the bleak autumnal day. A light, persistent rain worked its way through her veil and under her sleeves. Her insides slithered like fish in her belly. What would she say to him?

  Windsor smelt earthy and damp. Green, slick trees shed drips from the ends of their leaves like tears. Drops of water speckled the last of the dying flowers. The castle towered over them,
grey and unchanging, blending into the leaden clouds above. Charlotte shuddered as they stepped across the threshold. She had never liked the castle. It wasn’t like her lodge, with dimity curtains and allegories painted on the ceiling – it was musty and rank with the scent of wet stone and mouldering wood. There were no fine sconces and tapered candles here, only a soupy, half-light.

  A draught blew them forward and Charlotte realised she was colder than she had been outside. George’s voice drifted above the air whooshing through the corridors. They found him in one of the better apartments, which had been repaired for his music concerts. A dark, rectangular patch on the wall caught Charlotte’s eye the minute they stepped into the room. Something was missing.

  ‘My Zoffany,’ she murmured. ‘Why has he moved my Zoffany painting?’

  A warm breath against her cheek. She jumped round to find George peering over her shoulder.

  ‘I got rid of it. I hate it. I will put some real art there.’

  Every syllable was a needle pricking her skin. His voice carried a venom she had never heard before. She fumbled for words. ‘What . . . whatever you wish.’

  Doctors lurked warily at the sides of the room. She noticed that one of the pages sported a black eye. George prowled around her. Her breath accelerated as fear burned through her chest. This was not her husband – it was some beast ready to pounce and tear her limb from limb. She froze, her eyes fixed on the spot where her painting used to be.

  ‘My dear . . .’ Instinctively, she turned her head to his softened voice – and saw him offer an arm to Lady Pembroke. Lady Pembroke had no choice but to take it. She tried to keep hold of Charlotte with her other arm, but the King was too strong and wrenched them apart. ‘It is a treat to see you. How well you look today.’

  Charlotte felt sick. It wasn’t the words, but the expression on his face, that wounded her. She’d seen it before: glowing eyes, soft features. It was the look of ardent love he reserved only for Amelia.

  ‘Your Majesty . . .’

  He laid a hand over Lady Pembroke’s mouth. ‘Hush, hush.’

  Lady Pembroke’s bosom heaved beneath her fichu. She stood stone still as the King caressed her cheek, her hair. He let go just as the doctors moved toward him. But he kept looking at her with his heart in his eyes.

  ‘Your M–Majesty,’ Lady Pembroke stuttered. ‘You are mistaken. I am not the Queen.’

  His face twisted. ‘No. But you should be.’

  Charlotte’s knees gave way. She put out her hands and caught herself just before her face hit the floor. ‘George!’ The name was wrung from her heart. ‘George! I have come to fetch you back to the lodge. To your family.’

  He shook his head at her as she scrambled on the ground. There was no concerned look, no loving arm to help her stand. ‘No, no. Poor thing, you are mad and have been so these twenty years.’

  ‘George . . .’

  ‘You are not safe. I will not let you into my bed again until seventeen ninety-three.’

  Through misty eyes she saw his face, as hard as flint. He didn’t even know her.

  Charlotte couldn’t remember how she got back to the Upper Lodge. One minute, she was weeping at George’s feet, the next, spread out on a daybed with a pounding headache. She stirred, putting a hand to her tender forehead. She tried to sit, but hands pushed her down. Madame Schwellenberg, Lady Holland and Lady Courtown appeared, leaning over her.

  ‘The King . . .’

  ‘They have sedated him,’ Madame Schwellenberg told her in German. ‘He is gentle as a lamb. They told him he made you faint and he wept at the thought of it.’

  Charlotte didn’t understand. For a moment in the castle she was sure, absolutely sure, that he hated her. She closed her eyelids and groaned. ‘Where is Lady Pembroke?’

  ‘In her room. She was very distressed.’

  Charlotte saw it again: her husband, fawning over her friend. The image raked up all her misery and she opened her eyes, forcing her way into a sitting position. She had never been jealous before. The idea of George with another woman was so devastating, so unthinkable, she had hidden the fear of it in the back of her mind. But now it was here, in front of her, and she had no charms to win him back.

  ‘Are my sons here yet?’

  ‘They will be soon,’ Lady Holland told her. She hesitated. ‘They have been kept in town by . . . business.’

  ‘What business?’

  Lady Holland sat down beside her – a presumption Charlotte would usually take offence at, but she didn’t have the energy to scold. ‘Your Majesty . . . Surely you must see . . . If it should happen that the King is indisposed over a long period, there must be . . . arrangements. For the country.’

  Charlotte hugged her knees to her chest. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, don’t tell me the doctors have given up hope.’

  ‘Of course not, Your Majesty. But they must prepare for every eventuality.’

  ‘Treasonous talk,’ Madame Schwellenberg huffed. She plumped a pillow behind Charlotte with particular gusto.

  Lady Holland looked penitent. ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty. It may just be gossip. But I thought you deserved to know.’

  Charlotte swallowed. ‘What – what other gossip have you heard?’ She watched Lady Holland’s skin redden beneath its porcelain paint.

  ‘I have heard that the Prince of Wales is very eager to do his duty. But nobody wants him to serve a Regency . . .’

  ‘I should hope not!’

  ‘. . . they want you.’

  Everyone fell still. The logs ticked behind the fire-screen.

  ‘Me?’

  Lady Holland nodded. ‘The people do not trust the Prince of Wales. They think he has married a Catholic.’

  ‘Mrs Fitzherbert,’ Charlotte murmured.

  ‘I tell you before,’ Madame Schwellenberg ventured to use her terrible English. ‘Nobody like your son.’

  Charlotte’s head reeled. She couldn’t even cope with running the household – with living – without her husband by her side. How did the people think she could manage a country?

  ‘Do not worry.’ Lady Courtown rubbed her back. ‘It may not happen. The King is sure to recover.’

  There was no conviction in her voice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Upper Lodge, Windsor

  Winter 1788

  ‘You do not understand, George. Your father will not see a Whig doctor. Tell him to go away.’ Charlotte ran beside her son as he strode down the corridor to the drawing-room. His step was long and confident; he walked as if he were King already.

  ‘Warren is the best, Mama. Doesn’t the King deserve the best doctor?’

  Of course he did. But a staunch supporter of the opposition party was hardly likely to calm his nerves. Doubt and regret feasted on her. She had made a mistake. She should never have invited the prince. She thought her son would have the ability to forgive and forget the King’s harsh fathering. But he was not here to comfort – he was here to serve his own agenda.

  Her heel turned on its side as they rounded a corner at speed. She righted herself and hurried on. ‘Why will you not stand still and talk to me?’ she cried.

  He pulled up abruptly. Charlotte nearly skidded into the back of his perfectly tailored coat. ‘Mama.’ The prince placed a finely manicured hand on hers. ‘You invited me here. You said you couldn’t manage all the business. I have come to help you, and all you tell me is that I’m doing it wrong.’

  Charlotte looked into his florid face. For the first time in her life, she was truly ashamed of him. It was only too clear that the prospect of ruling excited him. His eyes sparkled as bright as the diamond pin in his cravat. It should not have shocked her, but it did. She should have known the long-baited prince would seize his chance for revenge. ‘When the King recovers, he will judge all we have done,’ she reminded him. ‘I know your Whig friends help you, but they do not have your best interests at heart. They are all grasping for power.’

  He scoffed. ‘You know nothing of these
things.’

  Resentment stained her cheeks. ‘I know the King will be furious to hear of Whig doctors and Whig politicians in his house.’

  ‘Mama, when the Regency comes . . .’

  ‘If it comes.’

  ‘Oh Mama.’ George lowered his head and put his hands beneath his coattails. ‘You don’t really believe he will recover, do you?’

  The compassion in his voice was worse than the anger; it told her there was no hope. She backed away from her son as if he had pulled a pistol on her. He was wrong. Of course her husband would recover. He had to.

  ‘You can keep your politics.’ Her words came out in a wet, furious whisper. ‘But where the King’s health is concerned, I hold the power.’

  George shrugged. He looked at her with tender melancholy, like she was a thing to be humoured and pitied. ‘I will tell Warren to report to you, when he’s done.’

  She forced what little dignity she had left into a stately nod. There could be no truth in his words. It was just wishful thinking, a longing for power.

  Suddenly they heard heels skittering across the floor. They turned to see a cloud of blue satin flying toward them. Lady Pembroke’s skirts were ripped and crumpled. Beneath the torn lace at her neck, branded on her throat, was a bright red hand mark. Letting out whooping sobs, she pushed past them and turned down another hall.

  ‘Good God!’ the prince stepped forward, a hand on his sword. ‘Guards! Guards, Lady Pembroke is attacked!’

  Charlotte slumped back against the wall. The world pulsed around her. With a colossal effort, she bit back the bile in her mouth. ‘George, we don’t need the guards.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He watched her. It took him a moment to hear the words behind her silence. ‘You can’t mean . . . No. Not the King?’ He hushed his voice but it was incredulous, harsh in her ears.

  ‘Yes.’ She tipped her head down, ashamed. ‘Yes. Your father.’

  Upper Lodge, Windsor

  Royal wandered through the deserted hallways of Upper Lodge in search of her shattered mother. If past experience was anything to go by, she would find her locked up with mournful thoughts or hovering around the King’s rooms like a tormented spirit.