He locked eyes with her. This all felt familiar. Edges blurred and melted; Charlotte flew back into her memory, back to another journey in triumph.
Once again, she smelt the herbs cast in her path as she travelled to Westminster Abbey for her coronation. She saw her young self, peeping out beneath the fringe at her window, watching the whole sky turn gold as the soldiers spread a canopy over her head. She remembered the banquet hall plunged in darkness, and stepping through the door to watch a volley of light shoot along a wax string, illuminating thousands of candles one by one. She saw golden plates flare up in the darkness and remembered thinking she was the Sun Queen, with the world lighting up before her.
Ah. How times had changed.
St Paul’s smelt of dank stone and carried a chill, despite the sea of people within. Charlotte looked up over the great arches and raised her eyes to the vaulted ceiling, gooseflesh prickling her arms.
She must remember, in this sacred place, all her blessings. Life was not as she wished, but when she thought back to those dreadful days, cowering beneath the sheets and listening to George babble . . . She could not be ungrateful. She thanked God for His mercy in giving her back a husband – even if it was not the husband she once knew.
Beams of light filtered through the windows and washed across the cathedral. As Charlotte led her family into the sumptuous royal pew, a shaft of sunshine settled upon the King’s head. A benediction. She held her breath, hopeful yet fearing. Could she believe? Was this a sign that all would be well?
A profound hush spread through the congregation. Charlotte closed her eyes and listened, sensing the presence hovering beneath the weighty silence. This was where she needed to be now. This was where she would draw her strength. She could feel it coming to her, like rays from a distant sun.
George’s voice darted through her consciousness, shattering the reverie. ‘Who is taking the service?’ he asked. His words rang, painfully loud, through the quiet cathedral. Hundreds of heads turned to look at them.
Charlotte’s cheeks grew warm, but George was oblivious, waiting for her answer. She put her finger to her lips, making a hushing sound.
The clergy emerged, carrying the golden cross of Christ, their robes fluttering across the sanctuary and altar. People stood in respect – but not George.
‘Oh, him! Very good, very good.’ To Charlotte’s astonishment, he pulled out his quizzing glass and peered through it.
She cringed. This could not be. Not now; he was better. Wasn’t he? Tears pressed, hard and insistent behind her eyes. Perhaps the doctors were wrong. Perhaps she had been right to doubt them. If she could just keep him quiet for this one service! She could not stand to see him humiliated before his own people.
The congregation sat down in a rippling wave. Charlotte cast her eyes out into the mass of people and they locked, instantly, on her sons George and Frederick, who sat with their uncle. Pointing. Laughing.
She bit back a gasp as their betrayal twisted like a blade in her flesh. More people took notice of the King’s quizzing glass.
‘What’s he doing?’ hissed Sophia, but Royal quickly muffled her mouth with a handkerchief. Good girl. Charlotte met Royal’s eyes and saw they were as wide with fear as her own must be. They were both wondering what he would do next.
A sharp blast of sound filled the stone arches and vibrated in Charlotte’s chest. She jumped – then realised. It was the organ. Its haunting music swallowed them, drowning out George’s voice and its many questions. She was safe for as long as the hymn continued.
This was how it would be forever, Charlotte realised; she would never relax. She was a sailor in the crow’s nest with no end to his shift. The worst of the malady may have gone for now, but she would live her life watching for signs of it, pushing it back. She would spend each day in fear of its return.
Dusk fell and brought Charlotte her hardest trial yet. Ladies washed her with rose-water, sponged her teeth and deposited her, sweet-smelling as an open flower, in the King’s bed. Madame Schwellenberg tucked swanskin blankets around her, purposefully avoiding her eye. Charlotte must do this – her duty. They both knew it. But the thought of the door closing on them, shutting her in alone, with him, all through the dark night . . . She was sure Madame Schwellenberg pressed her shoulder, ever so slightly, before leaving her to her fate.
There was no comfort in the five woollen mattresses, nor the coverlet of eiderdown. Charlotte forced herself to lie still against them and smile at the King, trying to recall those times she was eager for him, desperate for his touch. All she saw was the vivid red hand mark, bright and hot as shame, pressed on Lady Pembroke’s breast.
She held the covers over her chest, embarrassed he should see her in a shift. It did not feel natural anymore. This was not the man that she knew and trusted with her body. Would he be her gentle lover, as he had always been? Or would the sight of a woman in his bed inflame him, bring back the raging monster? He climbed into bed beside her and she stiffened. This was how a fox must feel, hunkered down in the long grass with the hounds sniffing nearby. She had the same desperate impulse to run.
But nothing happened. He didn’t reach out and touch her, he didn’t force his body on top of hers. Minutes passed, marked only by the sound of her pulse and blood rushing past her ears. She heard him breathe, even and calm. She stole a glance. He lay flat on his back, staring at the dusty tester over their heads. He was serene. He was not about to hurt her.
Relief slowed her heartbeat and sucked the tension from her body. With it went her last thread of energy. She needed to sleep. She needed to close her eyes and be free of this long, emotional day. Behind her eyelids, images twirled and danced. The gleaming carriage, the King’s quizzing glass. Maybe she had judged him too harshly. He had been away from the world for so long, he was bound to forget social niceties. And such crowds of people, the pressure of being stared at. His mind couldn’t grapple with that yet. But perhaps it would, in time.
She opened her eyes. He had not moved. Still staring up calmly like an effigy in St Paul’s.
Nettled by a sense of guilt, Charlotte shuffled closer and stretched an arm across his stomach. Her skin tingled as she felt his warm flesh beneath the nightshirt. She waited for a reaction, but there was none. God, how she had longed for his embrace. She had forgotten the way he stirred her blood, the comfort of holding him.
He turned his head on the pillow and their eyes met.
‘If I pay respect to you, why need it affect you?’
Charlotte swallowed. ‘Affect me? What should affect me?’
‘My loving another.’
It was there again: that queer look from another world. Charlotte bit her lip to stop it from trembling. ‘Who do you speak of?’
‘Lady Pembroke,’ he said. ‘I love her.’
Without a word, she drew her arm back from his skeletal frame and rolled over to face the wall. She held the tears in just long enough. She wouldn’t let him see her cry; she wouldn’t make a sniffling noise or allow her shoulders to shake.
Damn him. Damn his traitorous, ungrateful heart. She would never let him touch her again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Weymouth
Summer 1789
There was no Hanover for Royal after all. Instead of creating a dazzling court to catch her a husband, the King took her to an English seaside resort.
She had known, deep down, it would be this way. When he had rambled on about suitors in the carriage, it was only the madness talking. She tried to kindle gratitude in her soul and tell herself it was a price worth paying to have her father well again. But as he improved day by day and life resumed its normal pattern, she felt the shackles chafing her ankles once more. Only this time, there was little hope of escape.
She sat on Weymouth beach, contemplating the waves rolling in and out of the bay, tasting the tang of salt on her lips. Her younger brothers were somewhere out there, over that blue expanse; so was the prince who was meant to come and rescue her. He w
ould never come now.
Once, the eldest Princess of England would have been a prize for any man, but Royal’s value on the international marriage market had plummeted. She was tainted by association. No dynasty would risk a hint of madness entering the bloodline. Even if some foolhardy prince did appear and ask for her hand, the Queen would make her refuse. Anything to avoid tipping the King back into a delirious chasm.
She was trapped and the sea kept guard. The blue gulf heaved in front of Royal as her white gown billowed about her like impotent wings, and she threw her hopes down into its depths.
How to resign herself? How to stop the dreams from floating into her head and accept that she would always be a childless spinster? She saw Elizabeth’s head bobbing in the water beside the bathing machines and tried to comprehend that this was the furthest she and her sisters would get from England: a few yards into the ocean.
An army of women with burly arms, and skirts tucked up under their legs, helped people into the water. Over where the men bathed, two warrior mermaids escorted the King out of his machine. A cluster of well-wishers coated the shore; ladies with wide-brimmed bonnets and parasols, men in straw hats tapping their canes against the beach. Royal heard a drum, then a trumpet and recognised a tune. Sure enough, there was a band hunched up inside a spare bathing machine, playing God Save the King.
People on the beach caught wind of their national anthem and bawled out the words. Children jumped in time to the music, calling down scolds from their nurses. At the end of each verse, they gave a huzzah.
Royal put her head in her hands, driving her fingers up beneath her bonnet and cap to grip her hair. Saving the King; this was her mission. The people could sing of it with gay abandon – it cost them nothing. But for Royal it was not a song of celebration – it was duty’s commanding voice. Grey years of solitude and sacrifice cruelly set against a merry tune.
How would she bear it?
Once they were dry and dressed again, Royal and Elizabeth strolled back to Gloucester Lodge with their attendants in tow. The town they walked through was decorated to receive them; floral arches crossed every road and the women wore crowns of blossom. Crowds of people walked in the clement weather, gawping and pointing at them as they passed. Elizabeth waved at a little boy in his nurse’s arms. His round, pink face erupted into a grin and Royal felt a cavity open within her. She would never have one of her own.
By the time the Queen was her age, she’d had five babies. Unreasonable hatred flared inside her at the thought. Five – when Royal would give her right arm for one. She hadn’t known, when she played with the infants Sophia, Mary and Amelia that they would be the only children she would ever have. It was too late to appreciate them now – they were growing up fast.
Still linking arms, Royal and Elizabeth arrived at the end of the terrace overlooking the bay. Their uncle’s house, Gloucester Lodge, was a wide redbrick building just across from the sands. It felt incredibly gloomy as they entered, closed the door and blocked out the sunshine.
‘Where is the Queen?’ Royal asked the maid, who took their hats and gloves.
‘Her Majesty is drinking tea. She said you may join her, if you wish.’
Royal did not wish, but she knew it was an order. She shared a look with Elizabeth. They both found it difficult to cope with their changed mother.
They hesitated as they crossed the threshold. The Queen sat before a table laden with pastries, china cups, plates and a shining tea urn. Although the scent of warm, flaking pastry and brewed tea leaves set Royal’s stomach groaning, the Queen paid no attention to the feast. Someone had poured her a cup of tea but she ignored it, gazing instead out of the open window with fixed, unblinking eyes. Her lace cuff trailed in her tea. Diamond studs pinned a wispy veil over her head, but it did not conceal the shock of white hair beneath.
Was it kinder to interrupt her thoughts or leave her be? Impossible to judge. Like a spinning top, she whirled between feverish gaiety and periods of gloom. It had been easier to comfort her when the King was ill, but now . . . They could not console her for an unnamed grief. Elizabeth had tried to prompt her with gentle enquiries, but she confided nothing.
A strong waft of currant bun drifted toward them, pushed on by the breeze from the window. Royal’s stomach rumbled and the Queen looked up – there was no retreating now.
‘Come in, come in!’ Before they had time to curtsey, the Queen deposited buns on plates and thrust them into their hands. ‘Sit now, both of you sit. I have been for a walk today. Look at this lovely sprig of myrtle I found! I will carry it back to Kew and plant it myself in a pot.’ She waved the thin green stem at them, an artificial smile plastered to her face.
Elizabeth swallowed her mouthful. ‘It’s very pretty, Mama.’
‘I thought so.’ The Queen held the plant to her lips before returning it to a jug of water. Her hands performed the actions clumsily and the large tea stain on her cuff dripped down her dress.
‘Are you well, Mama?’ Royal asked.
The Queen turned around. ‘Well? Of course I’m well. What should be the matter?’
Royal could not meet her mother’s eyes. She muttered into the rim of her tea cup. ‘I thought perhaps you were a little fidgety. That’s all.’
‘Fidgety!’ The Queen’s shrill laugh sounded forced. ‘Bless you, child. I’m not fidgety. The King is well again – I’m the happiest woman in the world. How could I be otherwise?’
Her question dropped into a pit of silence. Unable to respond, Royal took a large bite of currant bun.
Just then, a door closed in the hall. They rose to their feet as Augusta entered the room, followed by Lady Waldegrave. Their appearance acted like a stimulant on the Queen – she was off again, flapping her hands for the servants to fetch more refreshments. ‘How was your sailing? What did you learn about the navy today?’
Augusta didn’t return her smile. ‘I – I’ve just heard some rather disturbing news, actually, Mama. The French people have stormed the royal prison, the Bastille.’
They looked at one another.
The Queen frowned. ‘Why would they do a thing like that?’
‘I don’t know. Who knows why the French do anything?’
Royal cleared her throat. Her interest in Whig politics gave her a little more savvy than the rest. ‘It’s a direct challenge to the crown.’ They all stared at her over the rims of their cups. ‘Is it not?’
‘Nonsense!’ cried the Queen. ‘If it was anything serious, I would have heard from Queen Marie Antoinette.’
‘The sailors thought it was serious,’ said Augusta, sitting down to receive her cake. ‘The news was fresh that minute, just over from France. Maybe Marie Antoinette hasn’t sent her letter yet.’ She toyed with her fork. ‘Goodness, I hope there won’t be a war.’
The Queen turned pale. Her saucer rattled as she set her cup down with a shaking hand. ‘No. There cannot be a war. Not now. The King—’ She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to. The parlour fell silent. Outside the birds sang sweetly; there was no sign of another storm rising, but Royal felt it coming. She felt it in her blood.
‘I will never forgive the French if they make Papa ill again,’ she whispered. ‘Never.’
Gloucester Lodge, Weymouth
Charlotte awoke to the sound of seagulls calling outside her window.
At first, she couldn’t remember why she had a sense of anticipation about this morning. Then it came to her in a flash of cold light: the Bastille. Marie Antoinette. She leapt out of bed, threw a wrapper around her shoulders and slunk out of the door. Although it was early, the corridors of Gloucester Lodge were warm and bright. Housemaids chattered and clanged in the rooms downstairs. Carefully, Charlotte placed one bare foot in front of the other and avoided the creaky floorboard. She didn’t know exactly what she planned to do. She simply had to be at the King’s desk when the post arrived – prepare him, see the reaction first hand. But perhaps the news from France wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps s
he wouldn’t even need to comfort George. If only she had a recent letter from the French Queen. Until post trickled in from the Continent, the press would exaggerate.
Charlotte tiptoed past a closed door. Behind it, a servant beat something and hummed a tune. She rounded the corner, trotted forward a few steps, and opened another door with a soft click. She glided into the study – and saw the King at his desk.
She leapt back with surprise, but no fear. It was clearly a good day – he was washed, dressed and about his business. He paused in the middle of sealing a letter.
‘Oh.’ Charlotte shut the door behind her and curtsied. ‘Forgive me. I did not expect you to be up.’
He held his golden seal above a pool of melted wax. Its sickly, burning scent reached out at Charlotte from across the room.
‘I am rather early.’ He pressed his seal down and imprinted the fast-setting wax. ‘What brings you here?’
She opened her mouth and shut it again. This was not how she had planned it. She had expected time to sit, gazing out the window at the glistening sea, and choose her words. Her mind scrambled for an excuse. ‘I wondered if I had any letters. Brought here by mistake. It sometimes happens.’
‘I haven’t seen any.’ The King picked up his letter, turned it over, and placed it on a pile in the corner of his desk. ‘You are welcome to look. Who do you expect to hear from?’
‘The Queen of France.’
She studied him for a reaction.
He grimaced. ‘A bad business. So much violence.’
She released her breath in a great whoosh. ‘You know?’ She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. All that worrying, all that anxiety, and this was how he took the news?
‘Just frightful,’ he said. ‘The mob wanted to hang the governor, but the rope broke. Apparently they cut his head off with a pocket knife instead.’
Charlotte’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘No!’
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