Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  ‘Oh, do stay, Sophy,’ Caroline urged. ‘Just a minute. You can join the Queen later.’

  Sophia wavered, trapped between an imploring face and a barbed one. She looked to the King as the only male authority in the room. His furrowed brow and widened eyes only reflected the confusion she felt.

  ‘Come, Sophia. Now. We have errands.’

  There were no errands. Her hateful mother had no right, no right at all, to make up these lies. She acted as if a minute’s conversation with Caroline would soil her forever.

  The King swallowed loudly and fidgeted. Could Sophia defy the Queen and risk an argument with him present? Would his sensitive nerves withstand it?

  ‘I am waiting.’

  Sophia coloured painfully. The King’s worried expression made up her mind for her.

  ‘No, I really must go,’ she told Caroline. ‘I am ever so sorry.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Another time, perhaps.’

  Sophia turned from Caroline’s wounded look. Burning with shame, she let the Queen frogmarch her to the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Upper Lodge, Windsor

  1796

  Charlotte surveyed the litter of paper on her desk in dismay. Scrawled writing, blots of ink and globs of wax swam in a pool of light beneath her candle. Only the letter from her son George stood out.

  Can you not make Papa agree to a separation? I would be serving my family in the most essential manner by ridding them of a fiend. Otherwise, all of us must make up our minds to submit to her evil influence for the rest of our lives.

  Nothing can equal what I go through. No words can paint it strongly enough for your imagination. I abhor her; my aversion and detestation are rooted. I shudder at the very thought of sitting down at table with her.

  God bless you ever dearest mother. I am so overpowered with unhappiness I feel light-headed. I know not where to turn for a friend now but to you . . .

  Every ounce of common sense told Charlotte to leave the situation between George and Caroline be. The Prince of Wales had done nothing to merit her unswerving loyalty. Rather the opposite – she still recalled those dark days when he rode roughshod over her toward the Regency. But alongside that image was another: the new-born baby, suspended over the Christening font as Charlotte reclined proudly on a bed of state. He was her flesh and blood, her boy. She would always be on his side, deep down. Charlotte understood what it was to despair of a marriage; for discontentment to grow up like weeds and smother the blooms. Her boy deserved better than that.

  Wind howled around the walls, moaning like a tormented fiend. Maybe it was a warning; a foretaste of the punishment ahead if she continued. If the King were to find out . . . He had been troubled enough by the offer of marriage for Royal. Dare Charlotte cross swords with him over this? She put down the candle and sat heavily in her chair. Scooping her Pomeranian dog, Mercury, onto her lap, she fiddled absentmindedly with his ear.

  What had she become? She had spent a lifetime nursing hatred for the mother-in-law who tried to crush and dominate her spirit. But now Caroline was here and Charlotte was falling into the same pattern: she was making Caroline’s life hell.

  Feeling her discomfort, Mercury wriggled and licked her fingers. The gentle lap of his tongue warmed her cold hands. Upstairs, the King ran about in high glee. The Brunswick girl had pupped a granddaughter, named Charlotte for the Queen. It would not do to think of that poor baby. If Charlotte dwelt on the little thing, so innocent in all of this, she would not be able to perform her task.

  The sound of the King’s joy jarred against the lament of the wind. Glasses chinked as he drank to little Charlotte’s health. He thought grandsons would follow, blind fool that he was. Charlotte knew better. She took her right hand from Mercury and gave him the left one to lick. Slowly, she picked up her quill and dipped it in the ink. She let the nib hang over the well and watched dark drips fall off the end. Could she really wreck a new-born baby’s home to make George happy? It was impossible to weigh her love for her son with that of her granddaughter. But she had to make a choice.

  Finally, she laid her wet quill against the sheet of paper and wrote a line:

  Dear Mrs Fitzherbert . . .

  A stone of guilt sat uneasily in her stomach. What language did a queen use to beg a common, Catholic woman to reurn to her son and make him smile again? If only this false wife of his, this Mrs Fitzherbert, had been born a Protestant and a princess. She was like soothing balm to George’s soul. With her, his temper was better and he was seldom drunk. Fitzherbert was more of a princess than Caroline would ever be.

  Cheers rang out upstairs; more toasting to the baby. Charlotte pulled Mercury’s furry body to her for comfort and continued her letter. It was a betrayal. But her granddaughter would understand, when she had a son.

  Queen’s House, London

  Sophia crept down the deserted passage, shuffling her feet along the skirting board. She edged forward with one hand on the wooden panelling, her chest against the wall, and felt her heart bump back at her.

  She should not be here. Her own daring made her nauseous.

  Early in the morning, she had dismissed her ladies, pleading a headache. She told the attendants to let her lie down undisturbed on the bed until four o’clock. She was counting on their obedience – if one of them came to check on her, she was undone.

  Her shallow breath rasped. She was nearly there now; Ernest’s door was in sight. Was she doing the right thing? Even if she got there without being seen this could still go horribly wrong. But her brother Ernest was her only chance. Surely he would help? At last, she faced the door. It stared at her, daring her. She made a fist, closed her eyes and knocked on the wood with a quick rap.

  No answer. Her heart sunk. After all that? Where had he gone? She crouched and saw a slant of light glimmering beneath the door. A sign of occupation? She could go in and see . . . but what if it was a servant, tidying?

  She sat back on her heels, debating. She was too scared to think clearly. Fear blocked out her desires and told her to flee. But if she ran back to her rooms now, she would never know. She would spend days blaming herself, sick with guilt. She had to take the chance. Climbing to her feet, she put out a trembling hand and turned the cold handle of the door.

  Ernest sat with his feet upon the desk, staring at the ceiling. A cigar dangled from his fingers, perilously close to the carpet. The smell of smoke scratched at Sophia’s throat and poked her eyes. Gasping, she staggered to the window and threw open the sash.

  ‘God, Ernest, how do you bear it?’ She flapped her hands before her eyes to stop them watering. The relief of finding him was diminished by the haze of bitter fumes.

  He considered her upside down, over the mop of his sandy hair. ‘I don’t usually have guests.’ He raised the cigar to his lips and drew on it heavily, causing the tip to glow. ‘You can sit down if you like.’

  She took the edge of a small, hard chair and waited. He said nothing. He merely sat blowing smoke rings into his own abstracted thoughts.

  ‘I suppose you are surprised to see me here,’ she started, ‘up and about again?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘I have not been very well recently.’

  He looked at her and smiled. The white scar on his cheek became ghoulish as it reacted to the stretch of his muscles. ‘I hadn’t observed. You are not particularly well at the best of times.’

  She rolled her eyes at his taunt. ‘You really are intolerable. But I will forgive you today – if you take me to see Caroline.’ She tried to drop the words casually, but they hung between them, interlaced with the wreaths of smoke. She gripped the edge of her chair.

  Ernest crossed his legs at the knee and mashed his cigar into the desk. ‘Why?’

  Sophia’s cheeks blazed with shame. ‘She wanted to speak with me when she was here, but I was not at leisure.’

  ‘Well then, wait until she comes back.’

  She stared at him, aghast. ‘I can’t.’

 
; ‘Look Sophy,’ Ernest sighed, tossing away the dead cigar, ‘I know why you want to see her. You want to talk to her on your own and the Queen will never allow it. She probably called you away and you did not dare to refuse her. Am I right?’

  Sophia drew her shoulders into her body and shrivelled. It pained her to admit her cowardice, especially to Ernest, who was so determined and sure of himself. ‘Yes.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ He stood up, brushing his hands. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  Because I am ashamed. Because she couldn’t bear to admit she was terrified of her mother and would hurt someone else, just to avoid the Queen’s displeasure. ‘I thought you might take me because . . .’ she struggled. ‘You seem to like Caroline, too.’

  Ernest pulled his coat off the back of his chair. ‘I will take you, you little idiot, because you’re my sister and you asked me.’ He shrugged himself into the navy-blue sleeves with a grunt. ‘And if it annoys the old woman or Fred or George, so much the better.’

  Carlton House

  The Prince of Wales was away in Brighton, but his town house remained cool and exquisite, a living monument to his absence. It retained the faint aura of splendour and style he managed to dust over everything he touched. If only he had been able, or willing, to sprinkle that magic over his marriage.

  As Sophia and Ernest pulled up in their sedan chairs, Caroline’s nursery assistant, Miss Garth, ran to meet them. Sophia knew her of old; she was niece to the King’s equerry, General Garth.

  ‘Princess Caroline will be delighted to see you,’ Miss Garth said. ‘God knows she is dreary enough, poor thing, with her little list of people she’s allowed to see. However did you manage to get away?’

  Sophia gestured to Ernest, who grunted in return.

  ‘Take her along, Miss Garth. I am staying around here. I cannot be doing with damned women’s talk.’ He shooed them away and wandered off through the double doors.

  Miss Garth led Sophia around the base of the grand staircase and turned left toward the private saloon. It was like being in another country. The style was rich and exotic – a far cry from the restrained décor the King favoured. As they entered the saloon, Sophia blew out her cheeks in wonder. An excess of green brocade, tassels and gimp met her eyes; the loving decorations George prepared before he met his wife, before he knew how he hated her.

  A mewl came from the other side of the room. She turned and saw Caroline coming forward to greet her, baby Charlotte nestled in her arms.

  ‘Oh, look at you! She is beautiful, Caroline!’

  Charlotte had rosy, dimpled cheeks and a spray of light brown curls. She was the very image of George. Sophia wanted to scoop her up and kiss every inch of her. She was starting to understand, at eighteen, what it was to yearn for a child of her own.

  Caroline watched her caresses with strange, sloping eyes. ‘You are brave. Coming here.’

  ‘Ernest brought me. He’s downstairs.’ Sophia found she couldn’t meet Caroline’s intense gaze. Remembering her audience, she quickly switched to French. ‘I wanted to see you. I felt wretched.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I never get to speak to you. I’m always running away.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. When the Queen calls you, you have to go.’

  Sophia pulled her shoulders back; a tight, awkward gesture. ‘She’s rude to you. Unpardonably rude. I’m sorry for it.’

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t scare me.’

  Sophia wished she could say the same.

  Caroline gestured for her to sit down. As they fell against the green sofa, Sophia put her arms out for her niece. It was easier to speak of difficult subjects with Charlotte’s soft warmth to cling to.

  ‘Caro, I need to ask you something, something delicate. I couldn’t put it in a letter.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. For a moment she looked absolutely farcical, with her big red cheeks and untidy hair.

  ‘They’re talking about marrying Royal to the Prince of Württemberg.’

  An amused snort escaped Caroline. ‘Oh! Fat Fritz, is it?’

  ‘Is he fat? I didn’t know . . . Wasn’t he married to your sister?’ Caroline’s sister, her dead sister. Her ghost shimmered before them for a moment, cloaked in grief and mystery.

  ‘Yes,’ Caroline said thoughtfully. ‘His children are hers.’

  Once more Sophia felt embarrassed, trespassing on forbidden ground. She looked down at the baby’s silken hair. ‘Pray, forgive me for asking. I just need to know – is it true? All those things they say about him?’

  Caroline smirked, resting her cheek upon her fingertips. ‘I didn’t think you liked Royal.’

  ‘She’s my sister,’ Sophia said simply.

  Caroline nodded and exhaled. The room seemed to breathe out with her. ‘I can only tell you what I’ve heard.’

  Sophia shuffled along the cushions, closer to her, and Caroline grinned; she never passed up the chance to tell a story, however painful.

  ‘Well, Fritz and ’Gusta went to Russia to visit his sister, who is married to the future Tsar. Old Fritz said he left ’Gusta behind for—’, she put on a snooty tone and pulled up her nose, ‘—behaving licentiously. He said no harm would come to her there, because she was a favourite of the Empress, Catherine II. But the next we heard, Catherine had tired of ’Gusta and banished her to Lohde. Apparently she died there giving birth to a bastard.’

  Sophia winced at the words of scandal. ‘But you don’t believe him.’

  Caroline shook her head. ‘’Gusta wrote to me – the man was trying to get rid of her. Any excuse would do. He ordered his aide-de-camp to interfere with her one night, just to slur her name. Luckily she had a maid sleeping with her and the blockhead had to go away again.’

  The child slipped from Sophia’s lap. She made a grab at her as she cried, ‘But – but that’s horrible!’ Was such a man to marry Royal? What if she was to disappear, like Caroline’s sister, never to be heard of again? It would kill the King.

  ‘Oh, they were both as bad as each other. But my sister was never stupid. I’m sure she found a way out of the marriage.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Caroline shrugged. ‘People say they’ve seen her. At the play, in Geneva . . .’

  Sophia’s head reeled. ‘What, seen her alive?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  The room became close and stuffy with the threat of sin. If Royal married this man, she would not truly be his wife. Juggling little Charlotte in one arm, Sophia ran her fingers across her forehead and pressed a thumb deep into her aching temple.

  ‘But then – why did you not say something to the King?’

  Caroline offered an airy, infuriating shrug. ‘Fritz wants a new wife; Royal wants a husband. My sister wants shot of him. It is all very convenient.’

  ‘But – it’s bigamy!’

  The moment the word left Sophia’s mouth, a change came over Caroline. She drew back and took the baby onto her lap. ‘My love, I think you are the only one in your family who cares about that sort of thing.’

  Suddenly, Caroline’s own situation burst into Sophia’s mind and struck her speechless. She had forgotten that Caroline, too, was a second wife; married to George after he made his vows to Mrs Fitzherbert. She withered inside.

  ‘I beg your pardon. I forgot . . .’ The baby made a noise and wriggled. ‘I need to tell Royal.’

  Caroline turned to her with wearied tolerance. ‘What good will it do? Someone needs to look after those children.’

  It was true; Fritz’s three children in Württemberg were Sophia’s own kin – orphans without a mother. Royal would be just the person to take care of them. She hesitated. It made sense but it felt filthy, tainted.

  ‘Would it have made a difference, if you knew? About Mrs Fitzherbert, I mean.’

  Caroline tilted her head to meet Sophia’s gaze. ‘I knew enough.’

  Sophia felt a surge of pity for her eccentric, forlorn sister-in-law with her odd clothing and musky smell.
r />   ‘It will get better, you know,’ she said hopefully. ‘George will come round. I’m sure he will.’

  Caroline smiled, sickly sweet, and laid a hand on top of Sophia’s. ‘You make it better for me, mon coeur. Thank God you will never have to go through this yourself!’

  There was something in the way she spoke that made Sophia’s skin prickle. ‘What do you mean?’

  Caroline’s cheeks glowed a brighter red beneath her rouge. ‘Oh. Never mind.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Caroline shook her head.

  ‘Caroline.’ Panic built inside Sophia.

  ‘Oh, Sophy . . .’ Caroline looked down at the rug. ‘You’ve been very ill, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ill enough for people to remark upon. On the Continent.’

  ‘Really?’ It was hard to imagine herself as the gossip of foreign courts.

  Caroline nodded miserably. ‘They say you are an invalid. Not capable of marriage. Not the kind of stock to introduce into their family line. Do you see?’

  Sophia did see; that is, she understood. But as for her actual vision, it clouded and swirled around her.

  Not capable of marriage. Marriage was her only hope of escaping the Queen. Without it, there was none.

  When Sophia returned, slinking her way back through the servant’s passages, she found a chair propped up against her door. Sitting on the red-and-white striped cushion, with the watchful air of an owl, was Princess Royal.

  ‘There you are.’

  Sophia’s heart beat thick and fast in her neck as fear mingled with annoyance. She stopped and glared, defiance blazing in her eyes. How dare Royal sit there, judging?

  ‘They told me,’ Royal continued, ‘you were laid down upon the bed.’

  ‘And so I was. I am recovered.’ Even to Sophia, it sounded false.

  They were silent, weighing the unspoken words between them.

  How smug Royal looked, sitting there. Her new spotted gown opened up onto a pure white petticoat. A portrait of her intended fiancé hung from the neckline of her bodice, grazing her breast. Sophia’s jealous resolution to keep Caroline’s story a secret set like cement. Let Royal, with all her airs of wisdom, run into disaster.