Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  She looked away from the window, over to her sisters. Ribbons and plumes of feathers nestled in their piled-up hair. Long white gloves stretched up to their elbows and their dresses poured out around their hips like waterfalls. This was an occasion demanding all their finery: their brother Frederick was bringing his Prussian bride to St James’s for the first time.

  Sophia’s new court dress made her sit awkwardly against the cushions, the weight of its jewelled satin tugging on her shoulders. Beneath it, her stays bit into her chest.

  ‘What do you think she’ll be like?’ she asked Mary.

  ‘Fred’s wife?’

  ‘Who else? Don’t you think she must be very beautiful? He fell in love with her so quickly! I hope she is pretty. That would mean her brothers, the princes of Prussia, are handsome.’

  Mary let out a rippling giggle.

  Princess Royal cleared her throat. ‘The princes of Prussia have not come with her.’

  Sophia pulled a face. ‘I know that. But Fred’s been telling me that the oldest prince would make a very good match for Mary, one day.’

  ‘If there is a war in Europe, no one will be getting married for a long while.’

  ‘And,’ added Elizabeth, ‘Fred will have to go back to the Continent. He’ll have to fight.’

  War. The word expanded in Sophia’s head until it was full of powder smoke, cannon balls and bloody swords. Had it really come to that? She’d heard the court talking about France in hushed voices or disapproving sneers, but she had not realised that the situation was perilous.

  She remembered Royal telling her they had abolished the monarchy in France. How could they even do that? The monarchy was not just an institution – it was real, living, breathing people. Could they abolish Sophia’s family? Abolish her? Simply tell her she did not, could not exist any longer?

  They shared the rest of the ride in silence.

  When the carriage pulled through the Tudor entrance of St James’s Palace, Sophia gazed up at the towers, which seemed to reach right into the sky and brush the wakening stars. She suddenly felt very small.

  She climbed out of the carriage, wobbling into the night air. A man in livery and a tricorn hat appeared to light her way. They passed through long, oak-panelled galleries, lined with portraits of kings and queens. Their painted eyes followed Sophia as she tried to keep up with her sisters. All the while the one word stalked her, treading on her hem: abolished.

  By degrees they reached the appointed saloon, and lined up either side of the King and Queen without saying a word. As if on cue, the door opened and Sophia saw the small, handsome features of her brother Frederick, shining with pride. Carefully, he turned to lead a lady through the doorway.

  She was not what Sophia expected at all. Frederick’s wife was a tiny, stick-thin creature, almost child-like. A powdered wig swamped her head and slender face. The material of her dress, beautiful though it was, hung like a sack from her figureless body.

  The newlyweds bowed low before the King and Queen.

  ‘Papa, Mama. Allow me to introduce Frederica.’

  As the new Duchess of York curtseyed again, light ricocheted off her jewels; she was dripping with wedding diamonds. Such a shame that her poor figure didn’t set them off to advantage.

  The King raised her up and shook her by the hand. ‘You are very welcome here, my dear. It does me a world of good to see how happy you’ve made my Fred.’

  ‘We are so relieved you arrived safely,’ the Queen said. ‘Travelling through France at a time like this . . .’

  ‘It was terrible, Your Majesty,’ the waifish princess said. ‘People stopped us at Lille. I have never been so frightened.’

  ‘They wouldn’t let us pass until we removed the royal arms from our coach,’ Frederick explained.

  Sophia tried to picture a country where members of the royal family were stopped and abused in the street. The only mobs she had seen were the swarms of well-wishers who followed her recovered father to Weymouth.

  Mary placed her mouth close to Sophia’s ear and shielded them with her fan. ‘Didn’t George want Fred to marry a princess and produce heirs for England? So he could stay with Mrs Fitzherbert and not worry about the succession?’

  Sophia nodded, afraid to speak or even look at Mary, lest the Queen saw her.

  Mary huffed in doubt. ‘Well. I don’t think Fred picked a good one. They don’t look like childbearing hips to me. Wherever they are.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Queen’s House, London

  1793

  The news arrived at last. The ground-shattering, timestopping news. The people of France had put their King on trial – and sentenced him to death.

  Charlotte slumped forward in her chair as the gulf of an unknown future yawned before her. Blood rushed past her ears like water. To kill a King!

  How had it come to this? The world was upside-down, warped past her recognition. She could not attend to the messenger’s words. All she could think was thank God, thank God she was with George when he heard this. Without her, the force of dismay must have capsized his mind. Perhaps it still would.

  ‘I offered him sanctuary.’ George shook his head, his eyes wide. ‘Why would they not let him come to England?’

  That look. It was there, lurking beneath his features. Ready to take over. A dreadful calm spread through Charlotte as she realised she had to keep her wits. If she didn’t guide and manage him, this strain would set the monster free. ‘They are an unnatural people. A savage and unprincipled nation,’ she breathed.

  ‘Poor man. Poor man. He would give his support to the rebels in America! Did he not realise what he was doing?’

  America again. That was the root of the evil. They had started a fire no one could control and now it engulfed the French royals. What must Marie Antoinette be suffering? Charlotte had witnessed her share of trauma, but she couldn’t begin to imagine it: having her husband snatched from her arms, wheeled through the streets and decapitated. Did they make Marie Antoinette watch as they led her King up the steps to the scaffold? Did she smell the reek of his blood as it flowed out onto the straw? No – she must not let herself think of it. George needed her full attention.

  She watched him, frozen in shock, staring into space. Given time, his memories would form a quicksand and drag him down. It was dangerous to leave him. He needed a flame put beneath his seat, a call to action. ‘This revolution is like a pestilence,’ she murmured. ‘We must remain calm and stamp it out. We must stop it spreading to our people.’

  George leant back on his throne, resting the queue of his wig against the golden frame. ‘I fear it is too late. Ireland is already demanding concessions for the Catholics. And while there are people like that beast, Fox, poisoning the minds of my subjects . . .’

  He was probably right. None of them were safe. The channel of water separating England from France suddenly felt very narrow. Charlotte had been through so much with George’s illness – could it possibly be that the worst was yet to come?

  She put a hand on his shoulder, letting it tremble against the epaulette of his jacket. She allowed her eyes to fill with tears. It felt strange – she had spent so long restraining sobs that it took a concerted effort to let them show.

  He turned to her.

  ‘Will we be next?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, George. Will they hurt my children? Or me?’

  George brought his hand down with a slam. ‘By God, I won’t let a single person touch you! Do not worry.’ All at once, determination animated his frame. He took her hand from his shoulder and pressed it hard to his lips. ‘I will never let it happen in England. My father told me to retrieve the glory of the throne. I will not fail him.’

  There was no hint of lunacy in his expression; only pure conviction in the righteousness of his cause. For a brief moment, Charlotte cared nothing for the French King. A warm chink of love shone through the wall she had built against her husband and it felt glorious. If this was what it took to bring the old George back, sh
e would endure it gladly.

  ‘Will we go to war?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘It will not be my choice to make. But surely even Pitt must see that it is the right thing, the moral thing to do.’

  She swallowed. ‘Let us pray that England agrees with us.’

  War, again, so soon. This time, it had to be won; it could not be a repeat of what had happened in America. They were not fighting for land; the stakes were higher now. They were fighting for their throne – and their very lives.

  Greenwich

  A heaving mass of humanity lined the docks. Red-faced, sweaty people pushed through the crowd with boxes, barrels and portmanteaux.

  Sophia felt a desperate urge to turn tail and flee for some pure air. The waterside odours clawed the back of her throat – a nauseous mixture of excrement and rotting fish. She looked down and saw a poisonous flow of hay, weed and bottles clogging the water.

  The warships in harbour looked indestructible, shining and new, with masts rising up into the clouds. But Sophia knew how soon they could shiver to splinters. Her brother William had spent hours telling her of his travels at sea – the battles and the near misses. She ran her eyes over the square windows in the side of the hull, picturing the cannon firing through them, and imagined the metal thud of a ball in her stomach. Some of these men lining the dock – officers in their red army coats and the navy lieutenants in their bicorn hats – would suffer that fate. She wanted to run and warn them, to make them stop this madness. She couldn’t bear the idea that someone would get hurt.

  Gruesome tales of the French, servant’s gossip, echoed in her head. Were her brothers to fight those monsters who massacred prisoners and took their ears for trophies, who danced the Carmagnole on piles of slippery bodies? What about that man who pulled the limp heart out of his victim and squeezed its contents into a glass, so he could drink the blood of an aristocrat?

  ‘Don’t look so glum, Sophy.’ Frederick cupped her cheek in his hand and squeezed it.

  Her words tumbled over one another. ‘Can’t you stay? I wish you would stay. I wish Papa had not appointed you. Then you would be safe.’

  ‘Ernest and Adolphus are under arms. Did you think I would stay here and do nothing?’

  ‘George is staying here,’ Sophia pointed out. ‘And think of your poor wife! Frederica is already worried about her father and brothers. Now she has to fret about you too, in Flanders!’

  Fred bent down to her short height. His lips stretched in a patient, indulgent grin. ‘How could I look her in the face knowing I had done nothing to help her family? Prussia, Austria, Piedmont, Spain and Holland are all fighting against France. We cannot lose, Sophy. We shall not lose.’

  Surely that was tempting fate. She nipped her lip, trying to commit him to memory, just as he was: handsome in a red coat with epaulettes, a blue sash crossing his torso. He kissed her forehead and stood back up.

  It was hot, so very hot. The people pressed in close around her. There was no air. Frederick turned to say something to their parents but Sophia couldn’t hear it; her ears were muffled. Perhaps she would never get the chance to speak with him again. He could perish in the flash of a flintlock and a cloud of smoke. They might all die out there – Frederick, William, Edward, Adolphus and Ernest. She tried to grip onto Mary but her hands were slick, unable to take purchase. The heat was unbearable. Her eyes sought Frederick. Where was he? She couldn’t see straight – there were black clouds rolling in, blotting out his face. Suddenly the bustling dock, and the horses pulling carts aboard ship, slid from her view. She felt the cold pavement press against her cheek. Then it was dark.

  Lower Lodge, Windsor

  Early in the morning Royal tripped down the corridors of Lower Lodge, leading the reluctant Queen behind her. Rims of frost clung to the windows and a cold, pale yellow light tinted the walls. Royal pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders.

  Frown lines around the Queen’s mouth and forehead showed that she was not convinced by Royal’s story. For once, Royal hoped her mother was right. Royal slipped into a closet adjoining the room where the young princesses studied. As soon as the Queen came in behind her, she shut the door with a click.

  ‘Why can’t we just go in and talk to her?’ the Queen asked.

  ‘I told you. She is . . . suspicious.’

  Royal knew the Queen would rather be at Frogmore, supervising the decoration of her new apartments. It was one thing for her to neglect the little ones’ education, but Royal wouldn’t let her turn a blind eye to their health. Sophia needed help, yet she fought off all Royal’s ministrations with an eye of dark mistrust. Royal didn’t know what to do. Without experience of nursing or a voice of authority, she was powerless in the face of her sister’s illness.

  She eased the door open a crack. The attendant, Mrs Cheveley, knew the plan; she had kept Sophia sewing with her back to them.

  Sophia sat composed, embroidering flowers onto a cushion, her golden hair flowing over her shoulder. The Queen poked her nose through the gap in the door and watched her.

  ‘Suspicious, you said? You don’t – you don’t think she will be . . .’ She struggled with the word in her throat and spat it out like a thing vomited, ‘. . . mad? Like her father?’

  ‘Papa is not mad,’ Royal said, with more conviction than she felt. ‘He is better now.’

  The Queen nodded but the trouble didn’t leave her pinched face.

  Together, they observed Sophia pulling her needle in and out of the material. She was concentrating hard, making even, accurate stitches.

  ‘I see nothing alarming. She looks well enough. A little thin, perhaps.’

  Royal grunted with annoyance. ‘It is more than that. She has not been right since she collapsed at Greenwich. Wait, you’ll see.’

  As the words fell from Royal’s mouth, Sophia turned deadly still. Suddenly, the needle dropped from her hand, swinging uselessly by the silk. She slumped back in her chair. It was happening again. Royal put a fist in her mouth to stop herself crying out; she knew what came next. The fit started gradually, little spasms in the arms and face. But the twitching built up like the crescendo of an orchestra, taking on a rhythm of its own. It was as if a demon had possessed Sophia; her slender body contorted and tossed from side to side, threatening to throw her from the chair.

  ‘Mrs Cheveley says this can happen several times a day,’ Royal whispered.

  A tambour frame clattered to the floor. Sophia jerked convulsively, one last time, and fell limp. There was a moment of profound stillness. Then, Sophia stretched her tumbled limbs, like a kitten waking from sleep. With perfect calm, she sat forward, picked up her needle and started sewing again.

  Royal shut the door.

  The Queen’s knees gave way and she fell onto a chair, crunching her silk dress. Her face was ashen beneath her elaborate hair.

  Good. Perhaps she would pay attention now.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she admitted to Royal. ‘We must call a physician – perhaps we should send her away for better air. Make sure Mrs Cheveley is her companion every night; I do not want her sleeping alone.’

  ‘I will arrange it at once.’

  The Queen seized Royal’s hand and looked at her with eyes full of need. ‘We must do everything we can. Sophy was born just before Octavius and Alfred. That end of the family is not strong.’

  Royal shuddered. What a foolish thought. There was no such thing as a family curse. ‘No, Mama. We will make her better. And remember, Amelia’s the youngest child. She’s healthy.’

  The Queen withdrew her hand and looked away into some dismal memory Royal could not share.

  ‘You do not know what it is to lose a child,’ she said in a thick, choking voice. ‘I’ve lost two sons. I cannot, I cannot lose a daughter.’

  St James’s Palace, London

  It was no ordinary drawing room. Charlotte felt every eye pinned on her, like needle-pricks in her skin. Even Sophia’s illness flew from her mind. She had been so concerned
about losing a daughter, she had not worried about losing a friend.

  She cast her wary eyes down the long, white chamber, taking in the sparkling chandeliers, the ladies in their hoops and wigs, the men wearing breeches and embroidered waistcoats. Which of them would turn on her, given the chance?

  If a nation could turn against a young, pretty queen, what hope did Charlotte have? She put her hand to her neck and adjusted the ribbon around it, painfully aware of its exposure. Marie Antoinette. Her poor lively, artistic friend. As the pressure of water built in Charlotte’s eyes, she turned her head to the windows. The crimson drapes framing them stood out against the walls like streaks of blood. Her heart flipped over in horror and she looked away.

  The image was clear in her mind: Marie Antoinette wheeled out through the streets on a tumbrel. Once, she rode in a fine carriage, but she made her last journey on a farmer’s cart. Rather than mounting the royal dais, she walked up wooden steps to the scaffold. The woman to whom people used to kneel was strapped to a dirty board and laid her head down for the last time upon the guillotine.

  Horror clawed through Charlotte’s guts as she pictured the scene: rough wood splintering against her chin, her shoulders tensing for the terrible blow, the roar of people subsiding for the sickening whistle as the blade dropped. Her poor, poor friend. Gone.

  ‘Did you see Adolphus’s shoulder?’ she whispered to the King. ‘It is a miracle he can stand and talk. No wonder they sent him home.’

  The King followed his wife’s gaze across the floor to their young son. His arm was strapped across his chest and his coat bulged where it covered his injured shoulder.

  ‘Dolly will be well again. Do not fret over those scratches. You must prepare yourself to see Ernest. Apparently his eye and cheek are badly scarred.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Soon after Fred.’

  The name hung in the air like a foul smell between them. After his exploits in Dunkirk, the Duke of York was coming home in disgrace. He was not fit to command; the Prime Minister had intervened and forced the King to summon him home.