Long minutes passed before he put his deck aside and addressed them. ‘Perhaps Augusta would sing for me?’
Augusta raised a hand to her throat. ‘I will try, if that would please you.’ She turned beseechingly to Dr Willis. ‘What shall I sing?’
‘Anything cheerful, but not too rousing.’
‘Rule Britannia?’ she suggested. With her wide, doe eyes, she looked as if she feared one false move would lead Dr Willis to put her in the restraining chair.
‘Very suitable.’ Willis decreed.
‘When Britain f-first at Heaven’s command, arose from out the – the azure main . . .’ Augusta’s feeble, shaking voice made the patriotic song sound more like a funeral dirge. ‘This was the charter of the land, and guardian angels sang this strain.’
All at once, the King’s booming voice rose up to join her for the chorus. ‘Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves . . . Britons never, never, never will be slaves.’ He fell back in his chair laughing and clapped, delighted.
Royal sensed the presence of Dr Willis at her side before his shadow fell over them. ‘That will be enough for today,’ he said with decision.
The King paused mid-laugh. He pulled himself straight in his chair, smoothing out his jacket. ‘Surely, I might spend a few hours with my family – when I must stay with so many footmen all day long?’
The stony face of his captor didn’t flinch. ‘Not today.’
The King sighed and collected his cards. ‘You will tell the Queen how good I have been, will you not? And say I am quite well enough to see my younger daughters. I do not think I will frighten Amelia anymore.’
‘I will judge when Your Majesty can receive more visitors. You must continue to improve.’
The princesses swept their curtseys and retreated backwards with practised steps, managing not to collide or catch one another’s skirts. The servant opened the door behind them and they tumbled back into the real world. Augusta, Elizabeth and Royal blinked at each other. They were all pale and tear-stained, but strangely jubilant. The dreaded first meeting was over. What now?
‘What did you think?’ Augusta asked in a whisper.
‘I think,’ replied Elizabeth, with something like her usual twinkle, ‘that George won’t be getting his Regency Bill after all.’
The White House, Kew
It was the news Charlotte had dreamed of for so long. Only now, she comprehended the distance between her dream and reality.
A recovery didn’t blot out the past few months. It did not cleanse the bitter images from her mind or remove the thorns from her heart. She wanted her old George back, but she would never get him. He was lost in the mists of time. This would be yet another George; one drained by madness, inured to suffering. Would he like her any better than the madman had?
She hovered in the doorway, clinging on to Amelia for dear life. The child was her shield, her talisman against his dislike.
‘Are you certain?’ she whispered.
Dr Willis’s son, John, nodded. ‘My father is only nextdoor. He can come straight away if there are any problems.’
Charlotte buried her face in Amelia’s hair. It smelt of roses and nutmeg – comforting, homely.
She knew she could not do it. She could not go into the room. They were urging her to jump over a mountain precipice, assuring her the plunge was safe.
‘He shall not hurt you, Your Majesty.’
Perhaps not physically. She saw him out of the corner of her eye, a wiry form bent over the table with a combed wig on his head. It was not his physical presence that worried Charlotte – it was his words; those cruel words that had nipped and scratched over the past months.
‘Come, I will walk with you.’
Keeping Amelia’s arms round her neck and her face halfhidden in the child’s curls, Charlotte edged into the room.
He looked up at the sound of her skirts brushing the floor. ‘Is that the Queen? Praise Heaven!’
Not that harsh, hoarse roar. George’s voice – familiar tones that went to her heart. She curtsied as he scraped his chair back and rose, shakily, to his feet.
Dear God, he was so changed. At least there were no swollen veins or blotchy patches now, but the features she loved were equally gone; the cheeks hollow, the skin wizened. Grieved beyond words at the wreck of her idol, she cast her eyes down to Amelia’s slipper.
‘How are you faring, Charlotte my love?’
Mingling pain and joy robbed her of her voice. She worked her mouth, but no sound left it.
He went on. ‘I have hated this room. You have no idea how I have hated it. But now, it houses the two things I love most in all the world.’
Oh, George. She wanted to believe it. Yet the memory of Lady Pembroke was fresh before her eyes. What if their marriage had been a mere pretence all this time? A patched-up job to tear him away from the unsuitable Lady Sarah Lennox, as the gossips said. What if, in his madness, he was giving vent to his true feelings?
When she failed to speak, George reached out and took Amelia into his arms. Charlotte let go of the little white gown with reluctance, but her fingers were too weak to cling on.
‘My beautiful girl! Oh, how I missed you!’
Amelia let out a high, girlish scream. Involuntarily, Charlotte looked up and met her husband’s eyes. They were pale blue. Finally – not bloodshot, not purple, not streaked with yellow. A cool blue iris against white. George’s eyes. But Amelia didn’t recognise them. She writhed in his grasp.
‘You’re scaring her,’ Charlotte said. ‘Let me take her.’
George stared at his daughter, appalled by the tears drenching her chubby cheeks and the balled up fists that pounded his waistcoat. With a mournful expression, he passed her to Charlotte. Their hands touched briefly in the exchange. Charlotte flinched.
‘I’m sorry. I suppose she’s forgotten me.’
Charlotte positioned Amelia’s face in the folds of the fichu at her neck, safe from fearful sights. Her heart panged for George, looking on helplessly at his own family. It wasn’t his fault – but she couldn’t see how he would ever heal the breach. It was like he had returned from the dead, a second Lazarus, after they had made up their minds to bury him.
‘Amelia will remember,’ she said with artificial brightness. ‘You must give her time.’
He nodded, sadly. ‘I understand. You all need time.’
Charlotte did. She was torn. She needed to be alone, to twine her contradictory feelings together. Fear and love suffocated her as they struggled for supremacy.
Amelia whimpered, her breath hot and damp through Charlotte’s fichu.
‘I must take Amelia out. I’ll come back later.’
He nodded again. How bony his neck was. His cravat seemed thicker than the skin it encased. ‘Please do. To see you again . . . I cannot tell you what it means to me, Charlotte.’
No, he couldn’t. And she could not tell him what she had been through. Out of habit, she folded down her head and dipped into a curtsey. Then she put her hand on the back of Amelia’s golden hair and sped away in a flash of red brocade.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
London
April 1789
London was on fire. Lights blazed from every wall, every coach, every rooftop. Even the poorest houses had rush lights in the windows to mark the occasion.
It was official. Willis had cured the King. Sophia waved from the royal carriage as it wound its way through the glittering streets in triumph. She smiled so broadly that it hurt. Surely now her life would carry on as it had before? This sudden flare of light would scatter the dark clouds the last year had brought. All she had lost was restored.
The princesses had new jewels and fine silks in recognition of the great event. Light from outside reflected in their diamonds and sparkled stars over the ceiling. Transparencies – paintings on gauzy paper, lit from behind – bore glorious inscriptions: Health to One and Happiness to Many, When We Forget Him May God Forget Us and God Save the King. Faces pressed against the
windows, smiling and cheering. Sophia’s cheeks stung from grinning back but she couldn’t stop. Irresistible smiles broke free at every fresh reminder: he was well again.
Back home, Amelia would show the King transparencies in the garden and recite the charming poem Miss Burney had composed at the Queen’s command.
‘Look! Look!’ squealed Mary.
Sophia craned her head. A parade of sedan chairs bustled past. As they cleared, she realised what Mary pointed at: a corner building with lights glinting in every one of its many casements.
It was Brook’s Club, the stronghold of the Whig party. Even those who tried to persuade Prince George to take the throne from the King were forced to celebrate tonight for fear of window-smashing mobs. The sisters smiled at one another, unable to say a word. Pure glee spoke for itself.
Queen’s House, London
People gathered about the courtyard, twitching with anticipation. Charlotte hovered by the window, concealing herself in the folds of the curtain. Her fingers clung so tightly to the blue material she was afraid she might pull it down. She hadn’t felt this knotted with nerves since her wedding day.
The horses waiting by the carriage shifted their weight as a light wind fluttered their manes. Looking past them to the black iron gates, Charlotte saw the tattered, weatherbeaten announcement flapping back and forth: A Complete Recovery. She stepped back from her vantage point and let the heavy curtains fall back into place. Was that it, now? Was it all over? A nightmare to be dismissed in the cool light of day? The King may be healed, but she was not. His cruel words were branded on her heart. She could not pretend he never lavished attention on Lady Pembroke, nor could she erase the feelings of revulsion and horror she had conceived for him. But what choice did she have? Duty called, merciless and insistent.
Charlotte pulled a snuff box from her pocket and took a pinch of the brown powder. She inhaled it sharply, relishing the way it kicked her senses into action. This stuff was keeping her alive, of late. Her fingers, heavy with rings, struggled to close the box’s delicate lid. Diamonds weighted her neck, sparkling like ice. She was coated with every piece of jewellery the King had given her on their wedding day. The solid gold, the translucent fire in the gems, made her feel safe. These jewels had seen her through her wedding and they would see her through this – a second marriage. She and George were two different people now and they would have to learn to get along all over again. It would not be as easy at this stage in her life as it had been at the age of seventeen.
A light scratch at the door made Charlotte look up; it would be Princess Royal, obeying her summons. She stashed the snuff box away and wiped the powder from her hands. They trembled. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.
Royal shimmied into the room, a white satin dress accentuating her figure. A purple bandeau arched over her hair with God Save the King embroidered in diamonds. Good. Exactly as Charlotte had designed it. There was some comfort in these small, aesthetic pleasures. They would look the part of a happy royal family, whatever fear and blame roiled beneath the surface. Royal curtsied, careful not to crush her gown.
‘Princess Royal, this event is very important. I will not have any scenes upsetting the King. I’m relying on you to watch the girls. Remind them they are not to speak to their brothers today.’
Royal raised her eyebrows and made a moue with her mouth. ‘All of them?’
Damn her, why could she never take a simple instruction? ‘You are not to speak to any of them. Not after the way they behaved.’
Royal gave her a curious look; something like reproach mixed with pity. ‘I will try,’ she mumbled. ‘But – but Mama, Fred nearly died the other day.’
Charlotte grunted; she was not in the mood for backchat or Royal’s youthful, foolish judgements. ‘Nonsense. There’s no harm done. A reckless duel, that is all.’
‘Captain Lennox shot off one of Fred’s curls, you know!’
Charlotte wheeled round at her. ‘Why should you defend them? Do you know what your precious brothers have been doing? Do you?’ She should have stopped there, but anger throbbed in her head and flashed behind her eyes, demanding satisfaction. ‘They have spread a scandal that you are pregnant! They think if they taint you it will discredit us. They mock your father in public! And none of your darling Whigs wear God Save the King in their caps!’
A deep blush covered Royal’s cheeks.
‘Even now, they want your father out of the way and your brother on the throne! Don’t you know how close he was to getting that Regency Bill passed? To overthrowing the government your father worked so hard for?’ She stopped for breath. Royal’s lip trembled. Charlotte felt a stab of remorse and reached for her snuff box.
‘H – he was very wrong,’ Royal stuttered. ‘I h – hope you will forgive him, eventually.’
‘What is the use in talking about this? Have you distributed the prayer of thanksgiving to all the servants?’
Royal nodded. Her throat moved up and down convulsively.
Guilt itched at Charlotte as she took a long, hard pinch of snuff. Of course, Royal was not responsible for her brothers’ perfidy. But she should have known better than to poke and needle Charlotte on this point.
‘Royal . . .’ Charlotte thought for a moment, then took both her daughter’s hands in her own. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you. The little princesses . . . The doctors tell me I must devote myself to the King’s needs from now on. I shall not be able to attend to their studies. I thought you the proper person to oversee it.’
A small ray of hope appeared in Royal’s face. ‘I would like that,’ she said. ‘I will do everything I can for them. For as long as I am here.’
Charlotte caught her meaning. A bitter stone lodged at the back of her throat. Must she be the one to deal this blow? She had hoped the girls would figure it out for themselves. ‘You must not be in a hurry to marry, Royal,’ she said softly.
‘But I am almost—’
Charlotte cut her off; it was kinder to nip the bud before it grew. ‘It would be very unwise to mention such a thing to your father.’
Royal pulled herself up, as if she had walked into a wall. A shade of sadness fell over her young face and with it, understanding. ‘No great changes,’ she murmured. ‘Nothing to disturb his composure.’
Charlotte nodded. ‘No. There is nothing for you to do but get in the carriage.’
The state coach gleamed at Charlotte as she came out of the Queen’s House, its golden fretwork double gilded by the low spring sun. Its magnificence caught her breath – it was still as splendid as the first day she climbed into it. The intricately carved figures stared blindly at her, their faces smooth and unchanged by time. She ran her eyes over each golden shape; shells, cupids, fruits, flowers, dolphins and angel wings. All this luxury just for her. It was time to be Queen again.
Charlotte glided down the stairs, a floating figure in her panniers and trained gown, and felt her spirit lift for the first time in months. All the degradation and humiliation of the past weeks melted under the carriage’s bright golden sparks. She could do this. Pageantry and show were second nature now. She had come to England as the unimpressive princess of a poor duchy and made herself into a model queen. She could crawl back from the position of wronged wife. She must.
The King waited for her, wearing his favourite Windsor uniform; a navy blue coat with red lapels and white piping. It hung strangely from the new angles of his shrunken body. Although the air was warm, he wore a greatcoat that reached his ankles, as if the slightest puff of wind might knock him down. A sudden deluge of pity for the poor, weak man doused Charlotte’s resentment. She gave him her best smile and laid a hand in the crook of his thin arm.
It was all she could do. Her heart thumped in her throat, blocking any words. They proceeded toward the coach in silence. Charlotte remembered the day they first met. She had been thoroughly tongue-tied — as she was now. She remembered seeing George in the low September sun, haloed by autumn light. She re
membered throwing herself at his feet. Yes, they were starting all over again. And she was still entirely at his mercy, just like that trembling, seventeen-year-old girl.
The great four-tonne coach barely tipped as the slender King climbed in. Charlotte felt enormous by comparison, struggling up the steps to sit facing him, her skirts filling all the space between them. She shoved a swag of lace under her feet. The door shut on them. They were alone.
‘You look beautiful.’
The compliment took her by surprise. Beautiful. How she had needed to hear that word in the days and nights spent gazing into the mirror comparing herself with Lady Pembroke. There was nothing so empty, so lonely, as having no lover to notice her, to remark on a new jewel. She looked thankfully into his drawn face and saw something of the old George flickering there. No. Her blossoming tenderness snapped shut like a rat-trap. She wouldn’t give in to it; she couldn’t trust it to stay. Relying on him was how she came to be hurt in the first place. ‘Thank you,’ she said abruptly.
There was a holler outside and the coach stirred into motion. Eight Hanoverian horses, white as a whip of cream, pulled them through the streets of London in splendour. Charlotte leant forwards for a better look and shouted with laughter. It was tremendous.
Men in golden livery and black hats sat aboard the lead horses, bouncing up and down to the trot. Their fine, powdered wigs were tied back in queues with black ribbons. Behind the state coach, streams of horses marched in their wake, two by two, all the royal guards and Charlotte’s children travelling in joyful procession. Crowds poured in around them, leaning out of every window and crushing each other in the streets. Men waved caps and called kind words. Foils, shattered pearls and diamonds littered the pavements as ladies grappled with one another for a better view. Charlotte saw a young woman in a dead faint, lifted over the crowd to safety.
Caught up in the intoxication, Charlotte grinned at the King. ‘Do you remember worrying, after America, that the people hated you?’ She held her fan up to her lips and shook her head. ‘Look at them now.’
Queen of Bedlam Page 8