Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  Royal ran a hand down the length of her face. ‘You are delicate, Sophy. A terrible illness has only just left you and there are mobs out against us. You cannot put your constitution at risk by running around the streets to see Caroline.’

  There was no use denying it. Sophia stifled her rising panic. ‘Will you tell the Queen?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Sophia scoffed with a nervous snort. ‘You had better make haste. There is not much time left to debase me in her eyes before you marry, is there?’

  Royal rocked back, making the chair creak. ‘I only speak to the Queen about your health and welfare,’ she spluttered. ‘I say this for your own good.’

  ‘I am sure it comforts you to think so.’ There was a strange satisfaction in ruffling her sister.

  Royal stood up, towering above her, and looked down with disdain. ‘You are changing, Sophia. You must check yourself before it is too late.’

  ‘I have to change!’ Sophia jerked the chair away from her door. ‘The world is changing! Ernest says I am too weak.’

  ‘Ernest is no role model for a young lady. If you are to have a husband, one day . . .’

  Tears pricked Sophia’s eyes – Caroline’s words were still fresh in her mind. Not capable of marriage. ‘I am never to have a husband!’ she howled and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Queen’s House, London

  1797

  Royal held the letter to her nose and inhaled. Between the musty smells of ink and paper, she thought she detected the scent of him – her future husband.

  Was it really happening? Somehow she had persuaded the King, the famously stubborn King, to say yes. And here, at last, was something tangible of her success, a part of the prince to keep. She ran her fingers over the paper and imagined his hands resting there. The hands of the man who loved her.

  Once more she pulled out the portrait framed with brilliants and imagined the lines and brush strokes animated with life. She had never nurtured any illusions about Fritz. It was common knowledge that he was a fat, plain man, not the handsome prince of fairy tales. But to Royal, his features were the sweetest in the entire world. This was her saviour, the man her children would resemble.

  The clock chimed and startled her. The time for correspondence had evaporated already – it felt like she had just sat down. She fumbled with the mass of papers and ink bottles on her desk before running to the glass.

  No improvement there. She tutted at her hair and straightened the fichu around her shoulders. Did it really matter? Fritz considered her perfect, just as she was. Who was the Queen to gainsay that? The thought made her giddy with joy.

  She hesitated with her palm on the door handle. Fritz’s letter sat on the desk with the forlorn air of an abandoned puppy. With an impulsive movement, she snatched it up and tucked it next to her heart. None of the usual apprehensions snagged at her skirts as she trotted through the palace. Whatever the Queen thought, she had Fritz’s love. The future lay open before her, full of endless possibilities.

  A weak autumn sun struggled in through the windows of the Queen’s room, dappling the walls in spots of pale gold. Light fell over swathes of rich material stretched across the floor – blues, greens, gold; muslins, velvets and taffetas. Royal stopped, amazed. The Queen looked up and smiled – a smile diluted by waves of stress.

  ‘My trousseau?’ Royal guessed, breathless.

  The Queen inclined her head. ‘Do you like it?’

  Royal caressed the silky material and then let it run through her fingers like water. ‘Like it? It is beautiful!’

  The Queen’s ladies swarmed about Royal, petting and caressing her, cooing like doves.

  ‘It is very handsome, Your Royal Highness,’ said Lady Sydney. ‘Those Germans won’t know what has hit them.’

  The Queen bent over and shook some creases out of the taffeta. ‘I do not think it wise to make up any dresses yet. You had better wait until you get there and see what the fashions are.’

  Royal nodded. These rolls of fabric would be her travelling companions, then the costume of that unknown woman, yet to be born: the Hereditary Princess of Württemberg. A chance to reinvent herself.

  ‘It’s important to make a good impression and look as they expect you to,’ the Queen continued. She glanced up and for the first time, Royal realised her mother was worried. She remembered odd snatches of conversation, hints thrown out about the Queen’s unhappiness in the early years of her marriage. It was hard to imagine the imperious figure standing before her as a nervous and vulnerable girl.

  ‘What did you take in your trousseau?’

  There was a haunted look in the Queen’s eyes. ‘Me? Oh, you don’t want to know about that.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘It was a completely different situation,’ she replied, busying herself with a roll of satin. ‘I only had one good gown to start with.’

  ‘Did my grandmother choose the material for you, like you have for me?’

  ‘No, she died four days after I became engaged.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. To be sure.’ Mortified, Royal fell silent and watched her mother work.

  The Queen’s every movement filled the room with the presence of her regrets. It was as if she thought, by preparing so thoroughly for this marriage, she would somehow undo the misery that started her own.

  The last link to the Queen’s youth, Madame Schwellenberg, currently lay above stairs on her deathbed. Royal had not stopped to think, until now, how important the old servant must be to her mother. A support through early marriage, a rock in the King’s illness.

  Guilt prickled Royal’s throat as she considered the Queen’s position. Her dearest friend and her eldest daughter would leave her, with only the King for comfort.

  And what sort of King? Would the stress of the upcoming nuptials corrode his nerves?

  Royal’s eye fell upon the trousseau again and she watched the colours shimmer in the moving light. The sumptuous materials went on and on, a sea rippling with colour. In the midst of it all, she spied a patch of white standing out like a sail. ‘What’s that?’

  The Queen followed her gaze. ‘Oh, yes! Come and look.’

  They walked over to the spot. Tiny dresses, stockings and caps lay in neat rows, just waiting for an infant to fill them up and bring them to life.

  Royal opened her mouth to speak, but her lips stuck together. Her desire and fear were too deep-rooted to voice. Baby clothes. All at once it was alarmingly real: she would have to endure childbirth, she would be responsible for the scions of Württemberg. Was she up to the task? Her ambition and habitual assurance in her ability fled at the sight of a tiny white dress.

  ‘One set for a boy, one for a girl.’ The Queen smoothed out the minuscule bonnets. ‘All the way up to three years old.’

  ‘They’re lovely.’ Royal’s cheeks burned as she pretended to inspect a little shoe. For the first time since her engagement, she felt nervous. Didn’t some women die in childbirth?

  ‘It is nice for every woman to have a little boy and a little girl,’ Lady Harrington observed. ‘Although the Prince of Württemberg has one of each already, does he not?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Queen said quietly. ‘A blessing. None of the usual pressure to produce an heir.’

  Maybe not, but there was pressure enough. Royal could never forget that Fritz had married her cousin Augusta. There was a benchmark to live up to. Would he expect her to know what to do on her wedding night? Was it true she would hurt and bleed at first? The thought of such profound intimacy with a stranger made her cringe. Instinctively, she looked to her mother. The Queen’s eyes were veiled. Princesses did not speak of these things. They were not questions she could ask.

  ‘Have you considered what you will wear on the day?’

  Royal pulled her tacky tongue from the roof of her mouth. ‘A little. I thought white and silver for the embroidery.’

  Lady Sydney frowned. ‘Is it not white and gold for marrying a widower?
’

  ‘Yes, but white and silver for a daughter of the King,’ the Queen pointed out. ‘She is an English princess first.’ She flicked her eyes over Royal. No clearer way of saying she lacked the finesse to make a bride.

  ‘Now, Princess Royal, that is all I want you to think about your clothing. I’ll dress you for the marriage ceremony. No one else will have a hand in it.’

  ‘But Mama, s-surely . . . I w-wanted . . .’

  ‘No.’ The Queen laid a cold finger on her lips. ‘This is the last time. I will have you dressed properly for once.’

  Royal absorbed the meaning. Acid rose in her core to disintegrate all her new-found confidence. That’s why the Queen chose the materials: she didn’t trust Royal’s taste. She didn’t want her shaming the family. It wasn’t an act of love at all.

  Royal’s hand fluttered to her bosom. She felt the edges of Fritz’s letter beneath her gown, but it was no longer a talisman against the Queen. It was a flimsy, thin piece of paper.

  ‘I will do whatever you think is right. I do not want to disappoint the prince.’

  Her nose fizzed and tingled as she held back tears. The prince. Her fantastic image of him was shattered. She thought of his portrait and began to see a man, a real man, made of nothing but flesh. A man who could, and probably would, find fault with her.

  Queen’s House, London

  When the time came, Sophia didn’t envy Royal at all. The gut-wrenching anxiety was painful to watch.

  Royal sat rigid on the sofa, wearing a blue, cut-away over-gown, which showed off her tall and curvaceous figure. Her petticoat was a masterpiece in embroidery, the flowers winding up and around in beautiful patterns. Nerves turned her face alabaster white and tinctured her cheeks with blushes. In her agitation, she looked younger than her thirty years; almost child-like.

  What must be going through her head? The most important meeting of her life was about to take place and the success of her marriage could rest on this first impression. Would she like him? Did it even matter? Probably not – the bargain was sealed.

  Royal watched the King intently. Sophia flicked her eyes in the same direction and saw him, remarkably composed, hands folded in his lap. Only someone intimate with his mannerisms would spot the tics that betrayed him: the way he squeezed the end of one finger and blinked in rapid succession.

  A ripple of apprehension ran through her. It wasn’t Royal who would pay the price of her escape. She would not see the aftermath of her wedding. Unless . . . unless the King was so distressed that he ranted and raved in front of Royal’s prince. What would happen then?

  The moment came upon them. The man on whom everything depended entered the room and Sophia rose to her feet.

  They had warned her to expect a fat man, but her definition of fat had been modest. The prince was a beast. His stomach was a swollen, jiggling thing with a life of its own. The material of his waistcoat creased as it stretched over the mound of flesh. His presence was overpowering – he was not just wide but tall, at least six feet.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed to the King and Sophia watched, enthralled, as the ghastly stomach crumpled within itself to his bend.

  She swooped down in a curtsey but couldn’t lower her eyes to the floor as she should. Unbidden, a horrible thought dropped into her mind: Royal had to share a bed with him. He would crush her.

  The King motioned for them to sit down. ‘How was your journey? Not too rough, I hope?’

  The prince spoke with a thick German accent. ‘It was bad, I am afraid. The crossing was the worst. Do you usually have storms in the spring?’

  ‘Not very often.’

  ‘I had a rough crossing myself,’ said the Queen, ‘when I first came to England. But that was in the summer.’

  ‘Ah! It is an honour, then, this weather. A greeting from England!’

  ‘You stayed with Sir Joseph Banks, I believe. An excellent man, what?’ asked the King.

  ‘Indeed. He was very kind.’

  There was nothing missing from the prince’s manners or address, and his face, though fleshy, was not ugly: a large forehead, expressive eyebrows and a fine, straight nose. He would look somewhat elegant if it were not for that stomach.

  He turned. ‘Although he told me my fiancée had been unwell. I was very distressed. I trust she is better now?’ His eyes locked on Royal.

  There was a pause – a long pause. Sophia heard Royal’s throat clench and recognised the painful click of words, caught in the back of her mouth. The old stutter. Sophia couldn’t resist; she turned around in her chair to stare. Royal’s diaphragm heaved, trying to force out speech. For a moment Sophia met her eyes, wild, hunted and pleading for help.

  As smooth as glass, the Queen said, ‘You must forgive the Princess Royal, Prince Friedrich. She has a little hesitation of speech, which comes out when she is under stress.’

  Royal swept down her eyelashes and lowered her burning face.

  The prince looked concerned. ‘I hope, my dear princess, this first disturbance will be the last I ever cause you.’

  Although Royal could not look up, she moved her head slightly in acknowledgement.

  Sophia was flabbergasted. Could this be the man who ordered the murder of his wife? Caroline’s story must have been false; she couldn’t imagine this prince in a bad temper, let alone laying violent hands on a woman.

  ‘You are very kind, Prince Friedrich. I assure you, the King and I feel your generosity more than words can say.’

  ‘Please, you must call me Fritz. We are almost family.’

  Sophia scrutinised his face, his jowls, for a clue. So far, he seemed like a good man, but only Royal would ever know for sure.

  Royal took a candle and retired to her room. Guilt pursued her every step. The King had not shown his misery – he was too well bred for that. But she had seen what it cost him to host the man stealing his daughter.

  Dear God, what had she done?

  Her ladies sat her down and unpinned her hair. Royal looked into the mirror, but didn’t see her reflection. She gazed beyond, picturing her prince again.

  He had not seemed disappointed with her plain looks. Even when she humiliated herself with that stupid stutter, he had been kind and encouraging. The first and the last disturbance I ever cause you. That was not just generosity; that was sweetness itself.

  Still, Royal couldn’t shake off her sense of unease. What if the Queen was right all along? A separation, a change, would be the perfect catalyst for the King’s illness. She groaned as remorse ripped through her. If her marriage brought on another spate of madness, she would never forgive herself. As her hair tumbled down, Lady Waldegrave picked up a silver brush and worked the stiff pomatum out of the roots. The scratching, ripping sound made Royal wince. It was too late to turn back. Her fate lay with a large, tall stranger. Royal could only pray that as Amelia grew, she would come to fill the vacant place in the King’s heart. But then, if Amelia wanted to marry . . .

  The tugging on her hair irritated her beyond endurance. She stood up, took the brush in her own hand and waved the ladies away through a side door. When they were gone, she threw herself onto the bed, fully dressed.

  She shut her eyes, but she could not block out the faces; their demands, their emotional blackmail. The King, the Queen, her brothers and sisters, her husband, the people of her new country . . . she could never please them all. It wasn’t fair. Why must she bear all the pressure alone, feel all the guilt?

  She picked up a pillow and hugged it. With a cold, hollow feeling, she acknowledged that the damage was already done. She wasn’t betraying her father now; she did it months ago, when she insisted on having a husband. She told him she wanted a bridegroom and, dear father that he was, he gave her one.

  The path was set before her. She must follow it.

  Chapel Royal, St James’s Palace, London

  There were rooms imprinted on Charlotte’s memory. In reality, she could walk in and out of them, but in her mind they were locked, without w
indows.

  There were the chambers where her baby boys had died. Part of her would always be caught in them, watching the dreadful scenes again and again. The room in the castle where George spat hatred in her face. The servant’s quarter where Madame Schwellenberg passed away, leaving her scared and alone. And now there would be the Chapel Royal. The place where she lost her eldest daughter – the first, no doubt, in a long string of deserters.

  Royal sailed into the room with a steady step, looking straight ahead at the altar. Joy transformed her face into something lighter, more beautiful.

  Charlotte remembered herself as a bride, recalled the words her brother-in-law said as he led her, trembling, into the chapel: ‘Courage, princess, courage.’ Royal already possessed it. That was one virtue Charlotte had managed to instil in her, at least.

  The bridegroom was stuffed into a silk suit, shot through with gold and silver thread. Embroidery coated his lapels and cuffs. Over his bulky shoulder, he wore the blue ribbon of the Order of the Golden Fleece. A dagger of pity plunged into Charlotte. At least when she went up the aisle, she was heading toward a young, handsome prince with a good temper.

  But this Fritz . . . He snapped at her ladies in waiting and complained to Lady Harcourt because he had received no gift from his bride. He was no match for Royal. It was like pairing a dove with a wild hog. But there was nothing she could do. The die was cast and Royal, ignorant of it all, was happy.

  Charlotte watched the bride’s long pelisse of crimson velvet sweep up the aisle, dappled in patches of colour from the stained-glass windows. The white satin dress, threaded with silver, sparkled and shimmered in beams of spring light. A cluster of long ringlets surrounded Royal’s ecstatic face. Little stars bounced off her diamond coronet and reflected in her eager blue eyes. As she reached Fritz’s side, she slowed and turned to him. He dwarfed her in height and width. How vulnerable and helpless she looked beside him.

  ‘Dearly beloved . . .’ The sacred words droned in Charlotte’s ears. Her vision darkened. How would she cope without Royal? Her daughter, her first baby girl. With a war and a sea between them, they might never meet again. Thirty years of love and care poured into a child and then – gone. Forever. And Royal was only the first. Time and children were slipping through Charlotte’s fingers; it was like trying to hold water in her hands.