Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  All this worry, swirling about George, like leaves in an autumn gale. He loved Fred the most. Would he be able to bear his shame?

  ‘You must not get upset about Fred,’ she urged him. She heard the desperation in her voice. ‘I’m sure he tried his best.’

  The King sighed. ‘If only we could have frozen time when they were young, eh? The little boys, the girls . . . especially the girls.’

  He was right – it would not be a pleasant thing to watch these girls grow into women. Sophia was already drooping under ill health – and what would become of Amelia? She was too beautiful, too clever to be content with the life of an English princess. She would want to marry, but the King would never allow it. Charlotte could see, even now, while she was only ten years old, that he would never let her go.

  But perhaps she was worrying too soon. If the revolutionary fever spread, there would be no future for the monarchy. Her daughters would never grow up. The guillotine would ensure that none of them aged a year.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gloucester Lodge, Weymouth

  1794

  ‘There you are, Your Royal Highness, a nice gentle mare.’

  Charlotte watched critically as General Garth lifted Sophia into the saddle. ‘Be careful now,’ she warned. Sophia was usually a good horsewoman, but today she didn’t look strong enough to control a mouse. With her big wide eyes and delicate drained face, she was like a porcelain doll. One spook, one bolt on the horse’s part, would surely break her.

  Prince Ernest drew up close alongside on his strong bay hunter. George was right to warn Charlotte about his scar. A gruesome, white and pink smile slashed across the cheek of his handsome face. One eye was badly damaged, heavyhooded and drooping.

  ‘Stop fretting, Mama. She’ll be fine. I’ll be right by her side.’

  Ernest had taken a fancy to his little sister since returning from the war. Charlotte was glad of it; his dry humour made Sophia smile and brought a bit of colour to her wan cheeks.

  General Garth clucked his tongue and the horses idled forwards, swishing their tails in time to the slow click of their hooves. Charlotte waved her handkerchief at them, keeping her eyes on Sophia.

  When she returned to her rooms, she found her dog Badine in a hurry of spirits. The little spaniel refused to sit by Charlotte’s side and rejected the cake crumbs offered to pacify her. ‘What is it, dear heart? Are you ill?’ Badine padded to the door, where she lay down with a huff. At first Charlotte thought nothing of it, but then Badine sniffed at the crack of air beneath the door and scrabbled her paws against the floorboards.

  Uneasiness snaked around her shoulders. What had Badine heard? Animals were always the first to sense something wrong. Charlotte immediately thought of Sophia, but swatted the awful idea away. ‘Badine, what are you doing? Come, sit down.’ With a reproachful look, Badine slunk back to the sofa. But within a few seconds, hooves clattered in the street and she sprang up with a sharp bark.

  Charlotte jumped. ‘What is it? Lady Wyndham, do go and see.’

  Lady Wyndham stuck her needle in a pin cushion and brushed aside the curtains. ‘Why, it’s the Prince of Wales, Your Majesty!’

  Charlotte’s limbs turned to stone. Something was wrong. The Prince was still at odds with the King, and besides, he would never come to a place as dull as Weymouth without a summons.

  She swallowed, hard. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  The main entrance opened with a jangle of locks and chains. They heard an indistinct hum of voices from the hall, then riding boots slapping across the flagstones and trotting up the stairs. The prince had gone straight to the King; this could not be good. It could not be good at all.

  Charlotte put her needle aside and scooped Badine onto her lap, gripping her warm, silken fur.

  Finally, after hours of delay, Charlotte received her orders to wait on the King.

  She stole up the stairs, burning to know why George had come, fearing to hear the answer. What would she find behind the door? The King in tears? Furious? She entered the small room – such a contrast to her palaces in London. A large window opened out onto the Esplanade, where hoards of people rushed to and fro. Beyond them the sea spread out like a cardboard backdrop in a theatre, pushing a flutter of salty air in through the sash.

  The King turned to face Charlotte, his features shining with joy. Her breath caught at the fleeting glimpse of her old, handsome bridegroom.

  ‘My dear, what’s happened? Was George here?’

  He came to her, both hands outstretched, and kissed her cheeks in turn. ‘Yes. He wants to get married.’

  Married? Her blood tingled with a sense of foreboding. He couldn’t – he was already married. Sworn before God. Everyone knew. ‘But – what about Mrs Fitzherbert?’

  The King nodded and rubbed his hands together in business-like fashion. ‘That’s all over. They were never legally married; you know my Act of Royal Marriages forbids it.’

  So, just like that, years and years of devotion were dismissed. These men were cruel when they wanted to be. She knew she should rejoice that George was finally pleasing his father by taking a bride in preparation for his future role of King. But the idea felt sinful – bigamous.

  ‘I am amazed,’ she said.

  He threw up his hands. ‘A change of heart; he’s come to know his duty.’ He paused. ‘Are you not going to ask me who he wants to marry?’

  Jealousy hollowed out Charlotte’s insides. This woman would not only replace her in young George’s heart; she would be the successor to her role, the next Queen of England.

  ‘He came to you with a specific proposal in mind?’

  ‘Yes. The only proper alliance. One I wanted to point out to him . . . his cousin Caroline.’

  Bile rose up in Charlotte’s mouth as the room seemed suddenly dark and quiet. Caroline of Brunswick. Daughter of a woman Charlotte despised, the topic of salacious gossip.

  ‘You are not pleased?’ He hesitated. ‘Oh, of course! Did not you tell me some time ago that your brother Charles was thinking of marrying her?’

  ‘Yes, but I advised him against it.’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘Why?’

  Because Caroline is an indecent, eccentric slut of a woman who has to be kept under constant supervision.

  ‘On account of the age difference.’

  He nodded. ‘Very true. No such problems in this case, though. There are – what? – six years between George and Caroline?’

  The awful things Charlotte had heard about Princess Caroline rang out like mocking cries in her memory. She was dirty, unchaste and wicked. Was such a woman to take her place? Take her son?

  The King watched her. ‘You like it very little, I fear.’

  How could she tell him the awful truth about his own niece? How could she begin to explain that Caroline’s mother, the King’s sister, bullied her from her first moments in England? Suddenly she was there again, years before, in the antique environs of St James’s Palace. Exhausted by the emotion and confusion of her wedding ceremony, fighting to keep her shoulders straight, pulling against the colossal weight of her diamond stomacher.

  Women she did not know came forward and kissed her flushed cheeks, dismaying her with the beauty and elegance of their English fashions. Then another set of blooming girls came to the front and stared at her.

  It had been the King’s sister, Augusta, who seized Charlotte’s hand with a rough motion and held it out for the ladies to kiss. ‘For God’s sake!’ she muttered, just under her breath. ‘It’s bad enough she’s ugly. Did he have to marry a simpleton too?’

  Charlotte hadn’t understood the language, back then, but she caught the meaning. She could translate the titter that rippled round the circle of prettier, fashionable women. That had been the first hostility. It had only got worse from there. Despite the years that had passed, the bitterness of those taunts and the terror Charlotte felt in the past still ached like a raw wound.

  Snapping back to Weymouth and t
he present, she avoided meeting the King’s eye. ‘I will treat the Princess of Brunswick very well, I assure you.’ She knew it was a lie. She knew she would punish Princess Caroline for her mother’s misdeeds.

  The King beamed at her. ‘Good. I knew I could rely on you. It is what our dear son wants, after all.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said wearily. ‘I will always do everything in my power to make him – and you – happy.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Queen’s House, London

  1795

  Royal’s thumb had a groove, like a miniature valley, from the impression of her sewing needle. The delicate skin of her fingertips stung. Laying the needle carefully upon her lap, she shook cramp out of her right hand. A circle of intent women surrounded her: the Queen and every princess, embroidering for George’s wedding. They’d been working since daybreak – even Sophia, still frail from illness and smothered in rugs with a bowl of gruel at her side.

  It was odd to imagine a bride winging her way toward them across war-torn Europe. Royal settled back into her chair and the fire kissed warmth onto her face. Thank God that amidst all this fighting and misery, wonderful things could still happen.

  Amelia rubbed her eyes with her fist. ‘How many children will George have? Will he have as many as you, Mama?’

  A shadow passed over the Queen’s face. ‘God willing, Amelia, he shall.’

  ‘A son first,’ Mary specified with an expert stab into her material. ‘Another King George.’

  A niece or a nephew. Royal imagined a new-born baby and her arms felt empty; there was a disgruntled tug about her womb. She recalled her little brothers and sisters; their sweet gurgling noises, the wonderful smell of a brand new person. A child growing up around the palaces would change everything.

  ‘How do you get on?’ George bounced into the room, excitement animating his portly frame.

  The Queen gave him a thin, tight smile. ‘Much the same as half an hour ago, my dear.’

  He chuckled. ‘Well, I have been prodigiously busy in that time. I have told Papa who should be in my wife’s household and I’ve just had a meeting with the architect. All the renovations will be ready when Caroline comes.’

  ‘I rather thought Carlton House was grand enough,’ the Queen said in a dampening voice. ‘Can you really afford to make such large alterations?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Once Parliament approves my new allowance, everything will be fine.’

  The Queen pursed her lips and continued sewing. The union clearly displeased her. Royal couldn’t understand why. She thought her mother would be proud, now that George was trying to make himself respectable.

  ‘Show me the picture again.’ Amelia stretched out her arms. ‘I want to see my new sister.’

  George bent over her chair and kissed the top of her golden head. He handed her a small, round portrait. Royal glimpsed large, sloping eyes and a long nose. ‘And she is on her way even now!’

  ‘Yes. We must make everything perfect for her.’

  ‘Perfect?’ A glob of spit shot out of the Queen’s mouth, across the room. ‘She is from Brunswick! What do you think she’s used to?’

  George shrugged and paced around the circle of women, his hands behind his back. The only sounds were the tap of his boots and the crackle from the fire. Royal wondered if, despite the unreasonable quality of her anger, the Queen was right. She often got the hideous suspicion George was making these improvements to Carlton House for himself, not his bride. Of all the topics relating to his marriage, his increased allowance from Parliament was the one he talked about the most.

  He slowed as he passed Royal’s chair, leaning in as if to inspect her work. With a deft movement, he dropped a note onto her lap. Almost without thinking, she covered it with her fabric, and George continued walking.

  Could it be? The scrap of paper burned through her skirt. Blood raced impatiently through her veins. This note could only mean one thing: he had found a bridegroom for her.

  From under her eyelashes, she saw the Queen focused on her work, too angry with the conversation to attend it further. Maybe just a little peek. One glance to prove she wasn’t dreaming. Royal folded the silk and moved her hand to straighten it out, the note curled in her palm. A scratch of spidery black writing met her eyes. There were four words: The Duke of Oldenburg.

  It was like the sun had emerged from behind a cloud. Royal struggled to hide her blooming grin. Pure delight flooded her chest and threatened to burst her ribcage.

  God bless him.

  Chapel Royal, St James’s Palace, London

  It was just like Charlotte’s nightmares about Alfred – she saw the horror approaching, but could not stop it.

  Her legs shook on the edge of her chair, urging her to stand and cry out that this was madness. But it took more courage to say nothing. She gripped the arms of her seat, half-expecting her fingers to splinter the wood.

  The bride looked just as Charlotte intended in a gown of velvet, silver tissue and lace, festooned with bows and ribbons all the way down the skirt. The candles winked as Caroline waited for her groom, catching on her jewels and throwing out spirals of glitter. She had long, soft curls down her back and a pile of rich material and feathers towering on her head. But she was still ugly.

  No art could conceal the vulgar rouge patches slapped on her face, her sloping nose with its sharp end or her wide, sloe-like eyes. Gaps in the teeth and indications of rot marred her bashful smile. Was such a girl to be the next Queen of England?

  Charlotte’s son, her George, arrived swaying before the altar. The Dukes of Bedford and Roxburghe stepped in to hold him upright. Sweat dripped off his pale, rigid face. King Louis of France couldn’t have looked worse on his way to his execution.

  Thankfully, the chapel was dark, with wavering candles throwing long shadows down the aisle. No one would see Charlotte clearly and realise she wasn’t the image of a proud mother. She took a deep, calming breath, inhaling the cold scent of stone. On her wedding day, this candlelit space looked enchanting and romantic. Now dark corners and the constant hiss of burning wax made it eerie.

  She had foreseen this disaster, but there was no satisfaction in being right. George was as revolted by Caroline as Charlotte was. A pile of bank notes might have softened the blow – but there were none. War had drained the Treasury and it couldn’t afford to grant George the sum he expected. Now, with a wife and a potential family to support, he was only going to run up more debt.

  The ceremony played out with the gravity of a funeral. It was wrong, terribly wrong. They knew, every one of them, that George yearned to crawl back to Mrs Fitzherbert, but they kept patching together this false union of souls, calling on God to approve their actions.

  ‘Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.’ The Archbishop of Canterbury laid down his book, staring from George to the King, from the King to George.

  Charlotte closed her eyes but the imprints of the figures before the altar still flickered on the backdrop of her eyelids.

  He is already married. He is married to Mrs Fitzherbert. She prayed someone would say something, do something to stop it, but no one moved.

  The Archbishop was forced to carry on.

  Caroline gave her promises in the half-light. George struggled to return the words, cloyed with a combination of misery and alcohol.

  At last it was done. The choir swelled in an anthem of rejoicing as Charlotte’s son and the Brunswick girl walked arm in arm down the aisle, the bride just keeping her drunken husband stable.

  ‘What is the matter, my prince? You have such a sad face on!’

  Charlotte closed her eyes and clenched her hands, remembering she was another bride who was called ugly. The matter, she needed to tell Caroline, was that she was illlooking and she smelled. And George, addicted to the finer things in life, would never even try to love her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


  St James’s Palace, London

  A low autumn sun illuminated a wood-panelled room: dust on the windowsill, dark tapestries on the wall and a girl, crouched beside them.

  A young Charlotte, fresh-skinned and auburn-haired, packed jewellery into a chest. Milky pearls, emeralds and an immense diamond stomacher. She took a cross from around her neck, kissed it, and laid it gently on top of the hoard.

  As she went to close the lid, a pair of painted eyes met hers: the pearl bracelet on her slim wrist, bearing a portrait of George. She lingered over this last piece, uncertain. At last she undid the clasp and committed it to the chest.

  Her window looked out onto the dirty streets of London, so different from the home she had known. What wouldn’t she give to see the sleepy Schloss with its crumbling tower, or the beech tree where she played as a child?

  Misery sat awkwardly with her – it had rarely been her companion before.

  She caressed Presto, the little dog nudging against her leg, and shut the lid on her treasures. Turning the key in the lock, she scrambled to her feet, weighed down by the cage of whalebone and canvas supporting her skirts. As she put out a hand to steady herself, the sepia light fell upon her little finger. Another ring, with George’s face upon it. That, too? She wavered. Perhaps one ornament was allowed. It had no useless finery about it; simply the comforting features of the man who had so quickly become her whole world in this nest of strangers.

  ‘Come, Presto!’ She folded her hands and started toward the door. She was about to place her fingers upon the knob, when it flew at her face.

  ‘There you are!’ Augusta, the Dowager Princess, her mother-in-law. Her shrewd eyes darted at Charlotte beneath their arching, disapproving brows. ‘You’re not going to Communion like that!’