Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  ‘I tell you once, the Queen ill. She see no one,’ Madame Schwellenberg barked in her terrible English.

  The King howled and slumped into Frederick’s arms. ‘Oh Fred, they said the King was ill. He was not ill. But now the Queen is ill, he is ill too!’

  ‘Don’t fret Papa. She’ll get better.’

  It grew dark. The castle fell into a grey gloom as Royal remained motionless, unable to draw her eyes from the shadowy figures in front of her. If only she knew how to help. She ached for Fred, who bore the terrible responsibility of being the King’s favourite. What could he do with this person who was no longer the father he knew?

  Madame Schwellenberg lowered her arms, watching the King weep into his son’s coat.

  ‘They will not take her from me!’ Suddenly shoving against Fred’s chest, the King freed himself and pushed past Madame Schwellenberg.

  They flew after him.

  The whole convoy burst into the Queen’s darkened room. Shapes moved in the dusk: the Queen, snivelling with her face in the pillow, Royal’s lady-in-waiting, Elizabeth Waldegrave, and the governess, Miss Gouldsworthy. There was a hiss and a flare of light as the King lit a candle from the dying embers of the fire and marched toward the bed. He thrust the flame forward and Royal gasped. If his hand trembled, he would set her mother’s hair alight. Gingerly, the Queen lifted her red and blotchy face from the pillow. Her jagged breath made the candle flame waver. She eyed the King like an animal in a trap.

  He squinted, waving his candle. ‘Is this the Queen, Miss Gouldsworthy?’

  ‘Y – yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Then I must take care of her myself.’

  He threw the candle aside – Royal jumped, but as it fell to the ground, a rush of air extinguished the flame. The King leant forward and lifted the Queen into his arms like a child. She didn’t struggle – she seemed more dead than alive. Incredibly, the King, who needed a stick to walk with only an hour before, left the room with a steady step, carrying his wife.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Upper Lodge, Windsor

  Winter 1788

  Charlotte would not move; she would never move from this bed. Terror could not penetrate through her warm sheets.

  Her pillow was wet with tears, but it didn’t stop her entering the precious oblivion of sleep. She didn’t dream; there was only the relief of a great, black void.

  In the insufferable minutes she spent awake, she heard him. Not George – that man was not her George. His words appalled her. He thought London was under water, that his pillow was Charlotte’s poor dead baby Octavius. The heavy curtains tied round her bed and two doors separating them didn’t hush the noise.

  Once, in the still of the night, she heard rattling and his pathetic cry.

  ‘Surely one door is enough to stop me? We have been married twenty-eight years and never separated a day. Now you abandon me.’

  It was a lie: she had not been married to that man for twenty-eight years. She didn’t know this stranger who howled at the moon and tried to jump from windows. She wanted her real husband back.

  Charlotte’s thoughts flew out of the dreary November skies, back to the muggy summer evening of her marriage. She saw herself suffocating in bridal finery; velvet, ermine and gold. The bridesmaids were prettier, all white silk encrusted with jewels, but George didn’t spare a look for them. He had kept his eyes firmly upon his new queen and promised to love her for all of his life with his hand on his heart.

  Bumps came from the hall. Charlotte raised the pillow and buried her head beneath its soft warmth. The cold, sharp world outside was pressing in on her, trying to enter her sanctuary. She heard the doctors in her dressing room and the whispering pages lining the corridors. They couldn’t help her; the only person who could console her for the loss of the King was the King himself.

  Even her eldest son George was no comfort now; after the attack his concern had evaporated, leaving only a shard of cruelty. He summoned his own doctors, his Whig friends whom the King despised, and mocked his father in public, sure of his imminent accession.

  They were all waiting for her husband to die. Every courtier jumped from the sinking ship of George III and climbing aboard the gaudy new conveyance of George IV – even his favourite son, Frederick. After all he had done for them! She wouldn’t think of it. She wouldn’t surface into that unbearable world. As long as she remained in bed with her eyes closed, she was safe.

  Except her shelter wouldn’t remain secure for long. Soon, the prince would move them all to Kew, to freeze the winter away in a summer palace.

  Hot shame spread through Charlotte. They had to hide the King. They had to conceal the terrible possibility that he was going – that he was – mad.

  The White House, Kew

  Sophia had never understood before when old people said they felt damp chills in their bones, but since coming to Kew she’d experienced it first-hand – an icy knife that passed right through her as if she was a strip of gauzy material.

  The tremors of her body propelled her down the hall. Sandbags sat propped against the windows, but they didn’t keep out the cold. The windows trembled in their frames. There were no carpets or thick curtains to retain heat. All comfort was gone – emotional and physical. Wind whistled and creaked through another part of the palace. How quickly it had all fallen away – peace of mind, smiles, sunshine, a family. At the age of eleven, all was lost. What would become of her now?

  ‘We won’t see Papa, will we?’ she asked Mary. ‘I don’t think I could bear to see him.’

  ‘The idea is for him to see us. I think they will try to keep him away from the windows as much as possible. In case . . .’

  Sophia looked at her feet and willed the warm teardrops to stay in her eyes. If she was weak and cried, the Queen would be angry.

  Royal, Augusta and Elizabeth met them on the landing. Mary pounced on them with questions. ‘What’s happening upstairs?’

  Royal and Augusta exchanged a knowing look. Sophia bristled with frustration – they were her parents too. She had a right to know.

  ‘Mama is upset,’ Augusta told her. ‘She was distressed that Dr Willis had to come.’

  ‘But why? Surely he will make him better.’

  Another pained pause. ‘Dr Willis is a – special – doctor. He has his own – facility – in Lincoln.’

  Mary looked at Augusta blankly.

  ‘He’s a mad doctor. He comes from an asylum,’ Elizabeth said.

  Despite Sophia’s best efforts, a tear escaped and splattered on her satin shoe. Maybe they would take Papa away. Maybe she would never get a chance to hug him again.

  They walked together, down the halls and out the doors, with slow, measured steps. The purblind sun struggled between clouds and cast a sickly light on the landscape. It was silent; no children chased hoops with sticks along the paths, no boats raced on the river, no cows lowed on the green.

  Suddenly a cry rent the air – something between a howl and a screech. The girls froze.

  ‘It couldn’t be . . .’ Augusta started.

  Royal looked off into the distance. A breeze stirred the short curls at the back of her neck. ‘An animal in the menagerie,’ she said.

  For once Sophia was thankful to be short, hidden behind the poufs and false hair on her sisters’ heads. Tension made it difficult to breathe or even see straight as she walked on, trees flashing around her. She didn’t know where she was until her nose caught the scent of damp grass. They had reached the garden – they were approaching the house. Somewhere, behind the expressionless stucco walls and darkened windows, lurked her father. Sophia held herself rigid, fearful one movement in the wrong direction would make him worse, not better. Mary gasped beside her but Sophia didn’t look up; she kept her eyes trained on the muddy hem of her gown. She heard a bang.

  ‘Who is that?’ Amelia squealed.

  Sophia stared down resolutely, ignoring the snatched breaths and suppressed moans that beat against her eardrums. Everything wa
s hazy, blurred . . .

  ‘For God’s sake catch Sophy, she’s going to faint.’

  Images spun as Augusta swept Sophia into her arms. She hadn’t passed out, but she was too weak to stand.

  ‘We can’t stay.’ Augusta said. ‘Go back, go back.’

  Augusta’s body shifted beneath Sophia in retreat. Overcome with relief, she looked up. Splintered pictures slotted together. Her vision cleared, like fog rolling off the hills. She choked on a scream.

  Pressed against the glass was a haggard old man wearing a dirty nightgown and cap. Foam swam in his long beard. He banged at the window, gesticulating wildly.

  Hands grasped the old man’s arms and hauled him, screaming, out of sight. The curtains flapped wildly, and then settled into a gentle wave.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kew

  1789

  The deputation from the House of Lords and the House of Commons had finally departed, leaving Charlotte in a darkened room with three dogs and the low hum of her own misery.

  She tried to digest what they’d told her about the trusts conferred by Parliament. The detail made her head swim. Her ladies were right: the people looked to her. They did not want the Prince of Wales in charge if there was to be a Regency. How could she explain she was utterly incapable? Without George’s love, she was like a cutting in the greenhouse: deprived of nutrients, shrivelling up and rotting. She wanted to curl up and cease to exist. She put a cool hand to her sore eyes, swollen from hours of tears. She must look a fright. Even her auburn hair had dribbled out its colour, leaving only a blank, stark white.

  She sent for hourly reports on the King, but hope was drying out. Deep down, she knew he would not recover. She had never felt so alone, not even when she first came to England speaking a different language. Now her last hope, her eldest son, had abandoned her. He avoided her room, knowing full well she deplored his plan to pass a Regency Bill. His betrayal blistered.

  Charlotte doubted her son would give her the respect due to a Dowager Queen when he stole the throne; he was suspicious of her, jealous of her popularity with the people. He no longer kissed her hand when he retired for the night and he had stolen precious jewels from her keeping, the diamonds the King wore in his hat – relics of happier days – calling her a damned magpie. He would probably throw her down and put that Mrs Fitzherbert, the Catholic everyone said he had married, into her place. Unloved. Bereft of both her Georges. How could she tolerate a life like this?

  Footsteps pattered outside the door. Charlotte inhaled; it would be the page, reporting back from Dr Willis.

  ‘Enter.’

  The door creaked open, admitting an agonising shaft of light as Stillingfleet shuffled into the room.

  ‘You are late. Did you give the King the grapes I sent him?’

  Stillingfleet held up the bunch sheepishly. Dismay settled round Charlotte like a dark cloak.

  ‘He would not take them?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Why not? What did he say?’ She steeled herself for another blow.

  ‘Just ravings, madam.’

  ‘Ravings about me. I will hear them.’

  He coughed awkwardly. ‘He did not mean a word, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Then it can do me no harm to listen to them.’

  He hesitated. ‘He asked – he asked if the grapes were from Lady Elizabeth Pembroke.’

  Barbs of jealousy pierced Charlotte’s heart. She struggled to keep the venom from her voice. ‘I see. And when he heard they were not, he sent them away again?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  It was bad, but no worse than she expected. ‘What else?’

  ‘The King said he would be much obliged to Your Majesty if you would send the dog Badine to him. He has a fancy to tie a blue ribbon about her neck.’

  Charlotte’s little spaniel twitched her ears at the sound of her name. Badine and the Pomeranians were Charlotte’s last comforts; she would not part with them.

  ‘Why? I sent his own spaniel, Flora, to him last week.’

  He cringed. So there was something else. She would know of it. Now Charlotte had felt pain, she wanted it in a torrent. She had a frightful compulsion to hear all the abuse her once loving husband hurled her way. ‘You do me no service by concealing things. I will dismiss you if you do not tell me what the king said this instant.’

  ‘He said . . . he said that Badine was very fond of him and that she . . . well, that she didn’t like you. Which, of course, Your Majesty, is nonsense . . .’

  ‘Of course. What else?’

  ‘I hardly know how to tell you, Your Majesty – but you must remember, he is talking gibberish.’

  ‘Still, I will hear the nature of it.’

  ‘The King – the King said that indeed, he did not – he did not like you himself. He said you had a . . . bad temper, and that the children are . . . are afraid of you.’

  Good God. Charlotte hadn’t realised pain could be so exquisite, so severe. This, from her husband! From the one for whom she had given up, sacrificed, smothered everything!

  ‘I see,’ she said stiffly. ‘That will be all then. Get someone to bring me the daily report. Those idiots Warren and Baker send everything to the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  He retreated, scraping from the room. The moment the door shut, Charlotte slumped to the floor and hid her face in Badine’s fur.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Kew

  1789

  Royal, Augusta and Elizabeth walked arm-in-arm across the gravel, bleak wind dishevelling their hair. The harsh winter had melted into a dull new year. Most of the trees were still bare and twig-like. Here and there, a few evergreens peeked out. The snow had melted to a thick sludge that stained the princesses’ slippers as they stole toward the White House.

  Once more, Royal saw that terrible window where the demented King had banged and gestured to her. Today it was empty; white curtains hung demurely either side. There was no trace that the nightmare had ever happened. Could she believe what the doctors told her? Had Dr Willis performed a miracle?

  They slipped inside and climbed the stairs. Royal held the bannister with a wet, slippery palm. Everything in the palace looked exactly as she remembered it. For some reason, her imagination had transformed it into a scene of horror. At last they arrived at the door to his room. Only a few planks of wood separated them from the King. But which King? The frenzied patient, fit for Bedlam, or their father? Royal balled her hands into fists, preparing for disappointment.

  As the door glided open along the carpet, Royal had an absurd impulse to close her eyes. But all was tranquil within. Her fingers unclenched. The room was a large, bright square, plainly decorated in peach with white mouldings. A fire sizzled and Royal noticed with approval that the pokers and other implements were not kept out beside it. There were no ornaments or pictures to catch the eye, not even a looking glass. The furniture consisted only of chairs and tables, flanking the walls of the room.

  In the far corner lurked a large seat with bulky fastenings on the arms and legs; it glowered at Royal, casting a high shadow on the wall. This must be it: the chair where they restrained him. The sight of it burned her eyes and she snapped her face away.

  There he was. Her heart turned over.

  The King slouched at a table patched with sunlight. He stooped over a pack of cards, laying them down in neat rows. He had an aura of tranquillity that took Royal’s breath from her lungs. Hope bustled forward, pushing against all restraints. Dare she creep closer and steal a look at his face?

  ‘Your Royal Highnesses.’ Royal jumped and saw a gravelooking man, dressed in black and white like a parson. ‘I am Dr Willis,’ he said. ‘Will you allow me to take you to the King?’

  So this was the man; the doctor who had done so much. Royal understood why her Papa feared him. He had a dampening presence, an air of complete control. As witness to a world of madness, he exuded a dreadful calm.

  Royal no
dded, unable to speak without letting out a stammer. Dr Willis escorted them across the room, his stride masterful and strong beside their fearful, mincing steps. The King looked up from his cards when they approached. The light fell full upon his face. Flesh had dropped off him in great swags. He was drawn like an old man, with seamed cheeks and lines bracketing his mouth. Illness had shaken him up, extinguished his vital spark.

  ‘Your three eldest daughters, Your Majesty. Come to visit you.’

  Recognition dawned on his sallow face as he stared at them. He paused, then smiled.

  ‘My dears! My dear girls, sit down.’ He looked at Dr Willis to judge if this was acceptable. ‘I hope you will not feel it wrong – me playing cards on a Sunday. I think it is excusable now, since I have no other way of entertaining you.’ His bony hands shook as he took up his deck once more.

  A bolt of love and pity struck through Royal. His words made sense. There was no foam, no flaming red blotches on his skin. She collapsed into her chair, overwhelmed with gratitude.

  ‘We don’t need entertainment,’ Augusta said softly, as she took her seat. ‘We’re so happy to see you.’

  Something like a smile tugged at his lips. His muscles quivered, having forgotten the action. ‘Very kind of you, my dear. You will forgive me, but I do need the amusement. So much silence and loneliness. For so many months, nothing but – hush! Hush!’

  The princesses started as their father clamped his hands to his lips and turned his head away. A few servants stirred; the King closed his eyes. Dr Willis did not comment, but paced the room with the sharp gaze of a hunter.

  Augusta fluttered her hands in her lap. ‘Of course, Papa. Carry on. Don’t mind us.’

  They let him continue his game in peace, placing card upon card.

  Royal knew why he didn’t speak. Words beat against the wall of his face; he had the jaded, tormented look of a war veteran with no one to understand what he had seen. He would never be able to discuss the past few months. There was no way he could start; the language did not exist.