Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  The Dowager Princess purposefully spoke English, not the French that Charlotte understood.

  She was silent for a moment, translating, before she ventured to reply. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Without your jewels! I told your ladies to lay them out for you. Useless women!’

  ‘They did. They dressed me in them.’ Charlotte flushed, speaking in French. ‘I came here to take them off.’

  ‘Take them off?’ The Dowager Princess repeated in disbelief.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t think it right to go to a solemn service in them . . . remembering the Last Supper . . . it insults God.’

  The older woman guffawed and pushed her back into the room. ‘Rubbish, child! Where would you get an idea like that? Put them back on.’

  Charlotte saw George’s three sisters poke their noses round the door, whispering gleefully at her expense. She set her jaw. ‘

  ‘I will not. I promised my mother I would never . . .’

  ‘Your mother is dead.’

  ‘All the more reason to respect her words!’

  ‘You won’t offend the court and dress like a beggar at church. I won’t have it.’

  Angry tears scalded her eyes. In the past, in every other dream, she submitted to what came next. But not this time.

  Presto yapped and jumped about her feet, spurring her on. She screwed her hand into a fist.

  ‘Go on, then! Put them back on. At once! Do you hear?’

  Charlotte snarled at the mocking, flabby face, heaved up her fist and swung with all her might . . .

  She did not have the satisfaction of completing her punch. The world tilted beneath her and she snapped awake as her head collided with the carriage window.

  The King sat beside her, pale and swaying. ‘George? What is it?’

  She tried to sit up. The cushioned upholstery tossed beneath her like a tempestuous sea. The carriage was rocking. She looked out of the window and screamed. Filthy, angry faces pressed close, baring their teeth. She scuttled back.

  ‘Be still, my love. We mustn’t betray fear, whatever happens.’

  People surrounded them. The horses shied, scrabbling their hooves against the road with deep-throated whinnies.

  A fist thundered at the window. ‘Bread! Peace and bread!’

  She reached out and clutched George’s hands to stop her own from shaking. ‘Is that all they want? Bread?’

  ‘War drives the price up,’ he explained. ‘Do not worry. The guards will come soon.’

  Do not worry? He saw all this and told her not to worry? He must be invulnerable to fear.

  The dark cloud of people continued to push the carriage and shriek.

  ‘Down with the tyrant!’

  ‘No King!’

  Charlotte pictured the shadow of the guillotine, stretching across the channel from France. But George didn’t even tremble. Without warning, the window cracked and shivered into fragments of glass. She shrieked and crouched down, covering her head with her hands.

  ‘Was that a shot?’

  A smoking hole in the upholstery answered her.

  The surly cries of the rabble came louder now. Through the broken glass, dirty hands reached in and scratched at the door. One grimy finger caught on the fichu around her neck. Charlotte sprang into George’s lap, letting the piece of material fly loose and sail out of the shattered window.

  ‘We’ll be killed!’ She buried her head in his shoulder, shutting out the noise.

  ‘No fear, Charlotte,’ was all he murmured. ‘No fear.’

  Sharp flecks of stone flew in through the window and pricked Charlotte’s flesh. When she raised a wary eye from George’s coat, she saw her lap covered in grit, the tissue and gauze of her gown torn to pieces. Another violent jolt – this time, from the front. Charlotte heard a horse grunt as its harness jangled. Dear God, they were taking the horses from between the shafts!

  ‘No! Stop it!’ A strange, male voice by the window. A broad back appeared and shielded them from the view of the mob. ‘Damn it, I’ve got the coachman’s blunderbuss and I’m not afraid to use it. If one of you steps an inch nearer the King, I’ll blow your bloody head off.’ The crowd hissed and jeered. Their unknown protector fired a warning shot into the air, lighting up the sky outside.

  Just then, in the distance, the trumpet blast of the Horse Guards rang out.

  Thank God, thank God. They were saved.

  Queen’s House, London

  Methodically, Royal bathed the cut, vivid against the Queen’s long, pale cheek. It was a repetitive motion that stilled the flurry of her thoughts. People had hissed at her brothers before, even at the King. But an attack on the Queen was something new. Far too French for Royal’s liking.

  ‘My own people . . .’ the Queen muttered through white lips. ‘My own people throw stones at me! They shoot at the King’s carriage! It will be the guillotine next Royal, you mark my words.’

  Royal brought out her false, soothing voice and wrung the wad of damp cloth. ‘No, Mama. It’s healing nicely now. See? Only a very little cut.’

  ‘This time, yes. But what about the next?’

  ‘There won’t be a next time.’ Royal spoke with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. ‘Papa has offered a reward. They will catch the wicked men and that will be an end of it.’

  The Queen mumbled something in German about the price of bread and scowled.

  Royal placed the sodden cloth back in the bowl and shook drops of water from her fingers. Then she took a soft piece of flannel and dabbed her mother’s face. Where was the courage and good cheer that used to define her? Every conversation with the Queen these days was like coaxing a fretful infant.

  ‘Come on, now. It will be Christmas soon and then George’s baby is due in January. Think of that! You will be a grandmother.’

  The Queen said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps this baby will bring him and Caroline closer together?’

  The Queen brushed away Royal’s hand and pressed her fingers to her eyelids. ‘No, it won’t. How could he ever be close to a woman like that? And what if their son is just like her? Imagine that: a Brunswicker King of England!’

  Royal sighed and laid a hand on her shoulder. It was a grim thought. She, too, disliked the rowdy and volatile Caroline, but the King was fond of her and if he could see goodness beneath the exterior, there must be something there.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mama.’

  The Queen shook her head.

  Annoyance throbbed through Royal. Her mother wasn’t the only one suffering. How long would she refuse to take comfort, drag them down with her?

  A scratch at the door disturbed them. The Queen inclined her head. ‘Enter.’

  The King’s equerry General Garth scraped his way into the room. Royal smiled at him, her eyes avoiding the claret birth mark branded across his cheek and eye.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed low to the Queen, hat in hand. The gold braid on his scarlet coat glistened. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he said, turning to Royal. ‘The King begs the favour of your attendance in his library for a moment.’

  This was it. Her heart flipped inside out like a parasol in the wind. This was the moment for which she had thirsted, ever since George leant over her shoulder and gave her the paper about the Duke of Oldenburg.

  Royal looked to the Queen for approval, fighting the muscles in her cheeks that wanted to smile. ‘May I go?’

  The Queen nodded, looking as dismal as ever.

  With a dazzling grin, Royal took the general’s arm and set off toward the Octagon Library. The elation of her spirits was impossible to contain; she did not want to walk, she wanted to dance with him through the palace. Just like that, the world was transformed.

  When she looked at the walls and realised she might escape them forever, they became beautiful; full of exquisite plasterwork and stucco roses. At long last, the shackles of her imprisonment rattled loose around her ankles. She would go to the King, and he would say . . .

  What would he say? He could not
possibly say no. She thought of the Queen’s words after his recovery. No sudden changes. No separations. In her desperation to break free, she had forgotten the risks. What if the madness came back? What if she, and she alone, caused a relapse?

  Before she had time to plan her defence, she was there. The King’s men opened the double doors and let her into the library.

  The room was wide and tall, tapering up to a domed ceiling. As she walked forward, rows and rows of books filled her eyes, rising higher with every step. Some of them contained laws, rules binding her to the King’s will. Ensuring that she could not marry without his consent. She took a breath. The air was laced with the scent of leather and freshly turned pages.

  There he was. Her father looked small in the forest of books. She swept him a curtsey. His skin was pale and sweaty, his eyes dark with thought. ‘Come here, my dear.’

  She approached the desk cautiously. Of course he would resist the idea of her marrying at first. But she must convince him. She would convince him; the whole course of her future depended on it.

  ‘Sit down.’

  She leant back into a leather chair. Blades of light fell diagonally across the rows of books, highlighting motes of dust.

  ‘My dear, I’ve received a letter.’

  Something in her soul hardened and steeled itself to her purpose. All at once, she realised she would never surrender. She would have this match if it cost her blood. What if it costs his mind? She shook the thought off. He was recovered, now. ‘Yes, Papa?’

  ‘It is a proposal of marriage.’ He looked down at the paper as if asking it for a prompt. ‘A proposal for you,’ he specified. ‘From the Hereditary Prince of Württemberg.’

  Royal baulked at the unexpected name. Surely he meant Oldenburg? Württemberg?

  ‘Yes, you may well be surprised. I cannot believe he would think of it, after the dealings he had with your cousin.’

  Royal put a hand to her forehead, feeling giddy. Someone else had asked for her. She was solicited by someone who, as far as she knew, had no gentle nudge from her brother. Could it be possible?

  ‘He asked for me?’ she repeated stupidly. ‘Me first? Not Augusta or Mary?’

  ‘Eh? Yes, he asked for you. But that is not the point. Do you not understand who this is? The brother of that prince who came wooing Augusta. Remember? He was married to your cousin and abandoned her in Russia?’

  She did remember. The widower of her cousin, who disappeared in mysterious circumstances only to turn up dead months later. Her stomach should recoil with revulsion at the thought of such a husband, but it didn’t. A beggar doesn’t refuse a mouldy crust of bread.

  ‘Of course I told his minister I could never send my daughter to a man with such brutal, unpleasant qualities.’

  Disappointment soured Royal’s mouth. In the set determination of the King’s face, she saw her hopes blowing away like bleached leaves in an autumn wind.

  ‘Then why are you telling me this?’ she blurted out.

  The King sighed. He made a bridge with his fingers and rested his chin upon it. ‘Because I am worried about you. You are quiet and withdrawn. We hardly see you. Your brother George says it is because you’re not married. He seems to think you want to be settled, more than anything in the world.’ He laughed uncertainly.

  Don’t, Papa, don’t. She knew what he was doing; he wanted her to refute it. He was inviting her to say she would stay with him forever, that his love was enough for her. But she had to admit, at last, the simple fact she had known all along: it wasn’t.

  She had never let her father down in her life. She felt his expectations snake around her like ropes, tying her to England.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said softly. ‘I want to marry more than anything.’ The words tasted revolting, like a sin confessed.

  He did not move. A clock chimed in the distance. ‘I thought all six of you would stay here with me.’

  Royal picked at her fingernail. Suddenly the wooden desk became a barricade between them, a battle line. If only she could make him understand. She loved him dearly – more dearly than she could ever say. But she could not give up her life for his comfort. She wouldn’t.

  ‘Of course you should marry one day,’ he explained. ‘But there’s no rush for these things. Your poor mother had terrible trouble when we were newlywed. She was too lenient with her servants and her maids went on strike. One of them even took her jewels!’

  Royal closed her eyes, shielding herself from the pathetic sight of him. ‘I must take my chances, Papa. I am twenty-nine. How many children did you have at twenty-nine?’

  He paused. Avoiding her question, he said, ‘I just – I just don’t want any of those horrible things to happen to you, Royal. I love you.’

  She bowed her head in shame. The ribbons in her hair drooped and brushed her cheeks. She felt like a villain. A stone cold, heartless monster. But God help her, she would never give in on this one point.

  ‘I love you too, Papa. I really do. But I need to marry.’

  His big blue eyes were full of memories. She knew he was thinking of his sisters, disastrously wed, and his miserable nieces, Augusta and Caroline.

  He didn’t realise Royal was more capable. Even he didn’t see what she could become if she were only free of this palace.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said unhappily. ‘Perhaps.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Queen’s House, London

  Winter 1795

  The grandfather clock chimed, singing out Caroline’s doom. Over an hour late!

  Sophia envied her bravado – following her own time, letting the Queen stew. A courageous act, though not a particularly wise one.

  She bent over her book, trying to hide in it. If only she had stayed upstairs with Mary, she wouldn’t be caught in this embarrassing tiff. The words on the page blurred – she couldn’t block out the raised voices of her parents.

  ‘This is outrageous.’ The Queen placed her hands on her hips. ‘She was due at five!’

  ‘Hush, dear.’ The King came up beside her and patted her shoulder. ‘I have sent a messenger. I’m sure there will be some explanation.’

  ‘One good enough to keep the King and Queen of England waiting? Without as much as a note?’

  The King took the Queen’s hand and led her to a wingchair. ‘It is badly done. I’ll talk to her. The pace of life is slower at Brunswick. She must learn how we do things here.’

  The Queen looked at him doubtfully. ‘Is she capable of learning?’

  ‘Of course. She will learn. Won’t she, Sophy?’

  Sophia started. She knew they would draw her into this, sooner or later. ‘I hope so, Papa.’

  It would be impolitic to agree with him and antagonise the Queen. Sophia had never seen her hate with such ferocity. What reason could she have? Caroline was certainly coarse, but not a fiend. If anything, her vulgarity was amusing – a breath of fresh air in the stuffy old palaces.

  ‘Be charitable,’ the King counselled. ‘Imagine she is one of our girls, married into a strange country. Would you not want their parents-in-law to have patience with their faults?’

  The Queen’s face changed. He had her there. She’d done nothing but fret since an offer of marriage had come for Royal.

  If the match took place, Sophia prayed that the Duchess of Württemberg would prove a kinder mother-in-law to Royal than the Queen of England was to Caroline.

  A rap at the door interrupted them. A messenger, clothed in gold, announced the Princess of Wales.

  ‘There, now!’ said the King. His satisfaction was evident as he pulled on the lapels of his coat.

  They stood – the Queen grudgingly – as Caroline entered the room. Her belly went before her. She was enormous with child.

  Her dress was buttoned up all wrong, her hair had not seen a comb for days, but it failed to spoil her radiance. Sophia felt a twinge of jealousy as she took in the glowing skin, the becoming plumpness.

  ‘Uncle!’ Caroline walked straight to
the King and kissed him, her lips making a loud smack against his cheek. ‘How good to see you!’ She still spoke in French – her grasp of the English language was poor. Sophia received a handshake, the Queen a brusque curtsey. ‘Fine weather,’ Caroline smiled.

  The Queen stared. ‘Fine weather?’ she mimicked. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself? You’re over an hour late!’

  ‘Am I? Blast it – there’s no keeping time in this state! I spend half the day tied to the close-stool.’ Laughter welled up inside Sophia; she fought to keep it in. ‘Do you know,’ Caroline continued, heaving herself into a chair, ‘George has put velvet seats on them? Crimson velvet! As if that could make the things pleasant! You cannot polish muck, my mother always says.’

  The Queen wrinkled her nose. ‘Indeed, you cannot.’

  Caroline did not rise to the bait; she simply flashed an infuriating smile.

  ‘And what do you mean by seating yourself? Did the King invite you?’

  ‘My dear – her condition . . .’

  ‘I am so fagged!’ said Caroline, stretching her arms. ‘Sophy, fetch me that footstool, would you?’

  Sophia obeyed, grinning. She had never seen anyone beat the Queen before and it intoxicated her. She swapped a triumphant look with Caroline as she helped her place her swollen ankles on the cushion.

  ‘Well, you may have time to waste talking of muck and nonsense – I do not.’ The Queen snapped her fingers and a lady rushed over with her gloves. ‘I waited because I wouldn’t go without seeing you, but you really have made me late.’

  ‘I regret it, Aunt.’

  While the Queen prepared to depart, Caroline turned to Sophia and took her arm. ‘Sit by me. I have been meaning to talk to you.’

  Sophia’s chest squeezed. Would it be about Royal’s prospective husband? She had heard worrying rumours but Caroline would know the truth. Her deceased sister was the pivot on which all the gossip turned.

  The voice of the Queen stopped Sophia dead. ‘Sophia has no time. She is coming with me.’

  ‘I am?’ she asked, bemused. Why did the Queen make herself so disagreeable? Why could she not be cordial to Caroline, just to please the King?