Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  ‘That’s not the worst. I heard they kept slicing his body in the gutter, even though he was long dead, and scalped him like savages.’

  ‘Good God!’ Bubbling panic replaced every feeling inside her. Augusta was right: it was serious. What would Marie Antoinette do?

  Seeing her distress, George turned his chair and put his hands out to her. Without thinking, she stepped forward to clasp them.

  ‘I thought we lived in modern times,’ she murmured. She closed her eyes, but she still saw red, like a splash of blood. ‘This is as bad as anything from the dark ages. The poor King and Queen!’

  ‘We know nothing for certain yet. Let us wait and see. We have had riots enough and come through them, haven’t we?’

  Charlotte squeezed his fingers. Had they really come through them? She recalled uprisings in the past; clinging desperately to George as silk weavers descended on her palace in a furious mob. His calm had been unbreakable. Had he repressed too much? Had the panic taken its toll, years later, and erupted into a foaming frenzy? ‘You always speak bravely, but you must tell me the truth. Are you sure this hasn’t upset you? I’m certain it has. You don’t feel any flurry, any . . . illness?’

  He caught her meaning. Looking her square in the eye, he spoke in a firm, steady voice. ‘No. No, I feel well.’

  For today, perhaps. Unable to meet the intensity of his gaze, she turned her head toward the desk and saw the letter he had just sealed. The curved, black writing engraved itself onto Charlotte’s vision. The world shrank around her, focusing in on the paper and the name. Lady Pembroke. In her husband’s own hand. She couldn’t rip her eyes away from it. Lead filled her limbs, weighing her down. Her hands dropped George’s and fell heavily by her sides.

  Always the same. Whenever she thought he was returning, that she was gaining ground – a blow that sent her staggering back.

  He followed her stare with a quick flick of his head. ‘Oh! No, Charlotte – you mustn’t think . . .’

  But she was already drifting toward the door in a melancholy haze.

  George called after her. ‘It is an apology.’

  She stopped. Outside, the first celebratory band of the day woke its instruments with a muted boom.

  ‘For the attack?’

  ‘For everything.’

  An apology for Lady Pembroke, but none for the wife whose heart he broke.

  George picked up a pen and twirled it in his fingers. ‘I know I behaved badly. So many improper words, so many awful deeds . . . It was like a thick cloud engulfing me. But it’s gone. I’m getting better and better every day.’

  Silence. She couldn’t call him a liar to his face.

  ‘All will be as it was before,’ he said. ‘You will see.’

  Charlotte thought she had seen enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kew

  1791

  Royal wandered past the Temple of the Sun, wishing the golden rays emblazoned on its roof could shed a little heat. Her ears and nose stung from the cold as she waded on through the gardens, frozen grass crackling beneath her boots. In the winter, Kew was a trap of bitter memories. It looked enchanting, with its frosted trees and stretches of sparkling lawn, but Royal heard the mad cries of her father on the wind as it whipped through the undergrowth. She could never forget that dreaded winter, nearly three years before.

  Birds chattered in the aviary, merry as springtime, hopping around and bouncing off the fretwork of their cage. Royal wondered if her mother was there, feeding them dry rolls. She twisted down a path and skirted the aviary just in case.

  She avoided family meetings where she could. They had an undercurrent of sadness, ever present. Although years had passed since the King’s recovery, the Queen hadn’t regained her cheer. She spread misery where she walked; a censer wafting its sour incense.

  Royal’s life had been frozen, like the sap in the trees, with no hope of a summer to make it warm and gold again. She looked up and saw a long, low building with arched windows. The Orangery. Relief washed over her as she anticipated the warmth and quiet inside. She trotted stiffly with numb legs, imagining the great stove wrapping its heat around her.

  A few gardeners trimmed the plants outside. She acknowledged their bows with a curt nod before diving round to the glass door. She fumbled with the handle beneath her mittens. The hinges were stiff with cold and wouldn’t move. With an energy born of desperation, she shook and clattered the door until it gave way and she half-fell into the Orangery.

  ‘Princess Royal!’

  She snapped to attention. The Queen stood in front of her, incredulous. A wide-eyed cluster of ladies held their breath.

  ‘What are you doing, roving about on your own?’ the Queen demanded. ‘I thought you were teaching Amelia?’

  The warm air brought blood back into Royal’s skin with painful jabs. Her cheeks tingled.

  ‘I’ve finished,’ she said defensively.

  The Queen stared at her with that old, judgemental look that made Royal feel like a worm. Now she was for it. She wished she had braved the cold and carried on to the greenhouse.

  Suddenly, the Queen waved her ladies away to a corner and seized Royal by the arm. She dragged her to a tree with tiny, new-born oranges, fresh with the tang of citrus.

  ‘Your political friends . . . what do they say about France?’

  The question caught Royal off-guard. Where was the scolding, the demand for responsible behaviour? Her mind churned, searching for the safest answer. ‘Their opinions are mixed.’

  The Queen chewed her lip. The dark green leaves of the orange tree partially obscured her face. What was she thinking? There must have been bad news.

  ‘You have heard from Marie Antoinette,’ Royal guessed.

  ‘Yes. I’m not likely to hear again. They’ve locked her family away in the Tuileries. She is guarded day and night like a common criminal. A prisoner, in her own country! Can you imagine what that is like?’

  Royal thought she could.

  The Queen twisted her hands together. ‘There is nothing I can do. I am tired of worrying about it. I am tired of waking up and wondering if it will be the first day of war.’

  Shadows like bruises sat under her bloodshot eyes. Royal drew on her reserve of reassuring words – she was running low. This was her role now; to placate, to soothe – not just the Queen but her sisters and the King.

  ‘Pitt won’t intervene yet,’ she said. ‘The Treasury cannot afford another war.’

  The Queen stepped back and leant on the misty, grey glass. ‘What am I meant to do in the meantime? Watch the King fret?’

  ‘It’s all we can ever do,’ Royal reminded her sadly. ‘At least the weather will improve in a few months. We can come back here and plant seeds. It might take your mind off . . . things.’

  The Queen made an impatient grunt. ‘I cannot wait that long. I need something now. All I think of is France and the King. I need somewhere they cannot reach me.’

  Royal longed for that too: her own space. A place to breathe. Why did the Queen think she was the only one who suffered? Damming the flood of her anger and selfpity, she pitched her voice at a sweet, hopeful note. ‘There is one good thing about France.’

  ‘Oh?’ The Queen raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘Fox supports the revolution, but George does not. They will drift apart and George is sure to make it up with Papa.’

  The Queen digested this for a moment. She looked relieved, but her face twitched to repress the emotion; she would not even allow herself the luxury of a smile. ‘And what about you, Royal? Do you support revolution?’

  Royal shook her head. She understood the need to kick against oppression and injustice better than most, but she could not justify the means.

  ‘I am for liberty,’ she said firmly. ‘Not bloodshed.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Frogmore, Windsor

  1791

  Pink petals flurried over Charlotte and Elizabeth, settling in the rims of their hats. C
harlotte raised her face to the blossoming tree and inhaled its floral rain. Spring had come at last. The sun was high in the sky, casting a glow on the land she had purchased. It was all hers now – her sanctuary. Frogmore would be her place of asylum, safely tucked away from the court – and from the King.

  Heaven knew she needed it. The landscaping and decoration would gather up her meandering thoughts and lead them away from the darkness that threatened to engulf them. She could expand her new house into a long white building full of glistening windows. She would spread a majestic lake out before it, to cast up a wobbling reflection of the plane trees and chimneys. It would be beautiful, perfect. A place for her to hide and forget.

  ‘Just there.’ She pulled off her glove and pointed across the lawns. ‘That is where I thought you could put your gothic ruin.’

  Elizabeth followed her outstretched finger to a nook enfolded by clumps of trees. ‘It’s a good spot. And if you like it, Mama, I can design some more things.’

  They wound their way through the formal gardens. Elizabeth put up a parasol to shade her face from the sun, but Charlotte couldn’t bear to miss a single ray. For the first time in months, she felt herself relaxing, unfurling to bask in the light. It was as if she had awoken from a deep, troubled sleep, to find the world fresh and budding around her.

  The pavement formed a cross through the four sections of the garden and a fountain bubbled at the centre. Charlotte watched the water ripple to the edge of the basin, where it lay stagnant. Its gentle, tinkling sounds hypnotised her. It was like a lullaby – penetrating, soothing her deep within.

  ‘Mama.’

  She heard Elizabeth as if from a distance. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You and I have always been open and honest with each other.’

  Charlotte started, the fountain’s magic instantly shattered. Open and honest? This couldn’t be the forerunner of something pleasant. She looked round at Elizabeth, willing her to hold her tongue. Just to let her enjoy one day of sunshine and happiness.

  She licked her lips, which were suddenly dry. ‘Yes, my dear.’

  Elizabeth glanced behind to make sure the ladies in waiting were out of earshot. She dropped her voice. ‘That being the case, I wanted to ask you – first-hand – if it’s true.’

  Charlotte heard the resolution in her voice and knew she would have to answer truthfully, whatever the question. She swallowed. ‘If what’s true?’

  ‘Did you refuse an offer of marriage for one of us from the King of Sardinia?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Before Charlotte could think, the words flew out her mouth, harsh and accusing.

  ‘Does it matter? I only want to know if it is true – and if it is, why did you not tell me.’

  Of course it mattered. It mattered if one of Charlotte’s ladies was a gossip. ‘Do not be impertinent. It is for the King to decide what you do and do not hear of.’

  ‘Mama—’

  ‘But if you must know, yes, the offer was made and rejected out of hand. The man is older than your father!’ Charlotte cried. The censorious expression on Elizabeth’s face was unbearable. ‘Why would we even consider it? There was no reason in the world to tell you such an absurd suggestion had been made.’

  Perhaps a cloud had drifted across the sun, or a sudden wind had stirred up. Either way, Charlotte no longer felt the warmth that feathered her face but a moment ago. Elizabeth took her hand. Charlotte let it lie stiff in her grasp.

  ‘I do not mean to accuse you,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It is just that we never expected to get any offers at all – after Papa. Now with each one you turn down I worry – I really do worry – that we shan’t get any more.’

  Charlotte looked into Elizabeth’s care-worn eyes, knowing she should feel pity, but instead, a throb of possessiveness asserted itself. ‘What then? You do not want to leave me.’ She didn’t inflect the end of the sentence into a question.

  Doubt flickered across Elizabeth’s face. ‘No. Please God, I will have some years with you yet. But Mama, surely you see it must happen one day? I need an establishment. I cannot live forever on the goodwill of George and his heirs. Surely you see that?’

  Charlotte did see it, but she didn’t like to have it pointed out to her. It called up a dismal image of her future self, old, sitting alone with the King in an empty room, trying to stir the embers of conversation. A draught of horror rippled over her.

  ‘I can only depend on George and his heirs,’ she snapped, jerking her hand from Elizabeth’s. ‘But I suppose what is good enough for me isn’t good enough for you.’

  ‘Mama . . .’

  Charlotte put up her hand. ‘I cannot believe you would be so selfish! Not one of you will think of me, left alone with a poor, deranged husband.’

  Elizabeth looked stricken. ‘I would never do anything to hurt you, Mama, or my father. But I do mean to marry one day.’

  Charlotte gave her a long, hard glare and turned upon her heel. She stomped back toward the house, hearing nothing but the tumult of her own emotions. Fear gripped her so tightly she could hardly breathe. She would be left alone at last. For the children, the King’s illness was just an episode to be forgotten, while they moved on with their lives. They wanted to abandon her – even Elizabeth!

  The pain of betrayal made her furious, snappish like a wounded animal. So Elizabeth thought she would leave this life, did she? Well, she couldn’t go anywhere unless Charlotte let her. And God knew, she would never do it.

  Charlotte entered her new house, shaking petals from her skirts. Her pleasant day had spoiled like a rotten fruit tart.

  She swept her way down the colonnade into the Green Pavilion, where everything was arranged according to her directions. The sash window hung ajar to let in the sweet spring breeze, which fluttered the red and green curtains. Porcelain vases with silk flowers decorated the tables and baskets of fruit adorned every windowsill. It was beautiful, but it failed to appease her. She paced up and down on the oriental rug, thinking furiously.

  Why didn’t Elizabeth understand that Charlotte needed her girls? They had to stay – for a few more years, at least.

  God only knew what the King would make of it. Would Elizabeth speak so candidly to him? Would she dare to insist on a marriage – or worse, elope?

  Charlotte caught herself with a shake of the head. It didn’t matter what Elizabeth did. It would be illegal. The King had made a Royal Marriages Act to ensure their children could not marry as recklessly as his siblings. He had them firm in the clutch of his hand.

  Charlotte came to a halt. Her feet sank into the rich pile of her new rug. It would work out. She just had to stay calm and breathe.

  A door latch clicked and she wheeled round. No one was there. But surely she had heard . . . Her heart drummed loud in her ears. Below it came a softer noise. She cocked her head to the side, listening. As her pulse slowed, she heard a low, deep sound, like the first mutterings of a thunderstorm. She closed her eyes, straining to hear.

  It was not a storm. It was a voice. In Princess Royal’s closet. She crept forward on the very tips of her shoes and pressed her ear to the smooth wood of the door. The noise grew louder and turned into a string of hushed words.

  ‘I’m sure it’s all some unfortunate misunderstanding.’

  She recognised the voice instantly. Her son, her George! A thrill of hope coursed through her. He was here. Did this mean the King had forgiven him at last?

  ‘No! You don’t know what she is like now. It grows worse every day. Even her ladies say she never laughs and jokes with them like she used to. How do you think she treats me? She hates me!’

  ‘Royal . . .’

  ‘No!’ Charlotte winced as a shriek met her eardrum. ‘Royal isn’t even my name! I’m Charlotte! Charlotte! But I’m not allowed it because it’s her name. I am not even allowed my own name.’

  Charlotte fell back from the door, her spine solidifying into a rod of ice. They were talking about her. She knew she should walk away, that it was foolish to
go back and hear more, but she could not stop herself.

  George’s voice again. ‘I don’t know what you think I can do about it.’

  ‘I need to get married. I’ll be twenty-six soon and too old for anyone to want me.’ The words tumbled from Princess Royal in a fever. ‘You could help me find a husband, you could tell Papa it’s a good idea and you could stop everyone from choosing my sisters first.’

  ‘If we can assure the princes you are not mad like Papa, you shan’t have a problem. You have a big dowry. Mama was never beautiful and she’s married to the King of England!’

  Charlotte’s head throbbed and lights flashed before her eyes.

  ‘Papa is an angel. I cannot hope to find a prince like that.’

  For a moment they fell silent and Charlotte half-feared, half-hoped they would hear her heart pounding through the wall.

  ‘I need money,’ George said, ‘and you need a husband. Surely someone out there has money and needs a wife? A princess of England – the eldest princess especially – is a good catch. There are a few people on the Continent from whom I have been trying to secure loans. If I suggest to one of the princes that you might be the reward . . . this could work. This could actually work.’

  ‘Do you have anyone in mind?’

  ‘Fred’s in Prussia right now. Is their crown prince not about your age? He would make a fine match. I will write to Fred and see what he thinks.’

  No. Charlotte staggered away and gripped the mantelpiece for support. Whichever way she looked, her children dropped away, one after the other, like pearls on a snapped necklace. The only constant she had was the memory of her dead little boys, Alfred and Octavius. They didn’t leave her.

  She crouched and laid her forehead against the cold marble of the fireplace. It would never do – she realised that now. Frogmore was a sham. A fine new house and elegant gardens would not be able to save her, after all.

  St James’s Palace, London

  Sophia watched the town rattle past the carriage. The sky was peachy-pink as the sun set over London with crimson streaks. She made out silhouettes of buildings and trees in the last light. A rare glimpse of the outside world.