The King cleared his throat. Charlotte was intensely aware of him at her side, holding himself under rigid control. He was doing all he could to keep cheerful and restrained for his daughter. One vein stood out on his neck; a muscle at the corner of his eye fluttered every few seconds.
She knew he wasn’t seeing this wedding, playing out before them now. He was gazing back to the marriage of his sister, Caroline Matilda, so long ago. The small, fifteenyear-old bride in floods of tears. And another scene, a few years later.
Charlotte remembered it well. A study strewn with dying candles and half-drunk glasses of port. Maps and charts spread out over a table, barely distinguishable in the feeble light. George had bent over them, his finger tracing a line. He wore no wig, no jacket, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and his cravat hung loose around his neck.
‘I must get my sister back from Denmark,’ he had told her frantically. ‘I must. The affair was not her fault. She isn’t a bad girl.’
‘You think the Count seduced her?’
‘I know it! But he has paid for it, by God. Executed by the government. With him gone, they have no right to keep my sister imprisoned. I will launch ships. I will pull her out of there!’
‘Away from her children?’
‘Yes. They will never let her near them again. Oh, poor girl. Poor stupid, heedless girl! It isn’t her fault, Charlotte. She was bound to stray. She married a lunatic.’
Ah, the irony of that.
Well, Royal was no Caroline Matilda. She would conduct herself better. But Charlotte doubted if George would be able to make the distinction. Once he started down a trail of association, there was no stopping him.
Who knew what horrors Charlotte would have to face tonight? She would have no time to nurse her own sorrow. As always, she would put her feelings aside and devote herself to soothing him. It was a pattern she was starting to resent.
How could Royal do it to her? Had she forgotten their conversation when the King recovered? No distress, no sudden changes. Perhaps she just didn’t care.
Charlotte wanted to shake Royal by her jewel-encrusted shoulders and tell her it wasn’t worth the sacrifice. A lifelong, happy marriage was a myth. The congregation proved that: George sitting awkwardly beside his hateful wife, Frederick and Frederica, now estranged and barely speaking.
And then there was her own husband, the man she had adored for years. Charlotte ran her eyes over his long, kind features and tried to make her heart flip like it used to at the sight of him. There was nothing.
If even a love like theirs could lose its magic, what could possibly last?
St James’s Palace, London
It was pitch black. Someone shook Royal’s arm. ‘Your Royal Highness. Your Royal Highness!’
Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Her head floated – she needed sleep. She was drunk with weariness.
‘Princess Royal! I mean, Princess of Württemberg!’
The new title exploded behind her eyelids like a firework. She forced them open a crack, trying to remember. An unfamiliar room, turned on its side. Where was she? Was the wedding over? A shadowy figure swam into view. She sat up suddenly and everything swirled.
‘There, now. Drink this.’ A glass of water pressed against her lips. She let the liquid trickle into her mouth and down her chin. Swallowing was a supreme effort. How did she come to be here? A slice of memory was missing from her brain. When the glass disappeared, she put up her hands and rubbed her clouded eyes. She paused, confused. A cold metallic touch grazed her left cheek. She snatched her fingers down and stared at them. There, on her left hand, glimmered a newly-minted wedding band. It felt heavy and awkward on her finger.
So it had happened. It wasn’t a dream.
‘Why am I here? What happened to my wedding?’
The maid smiled. ‘You fainted, Madam. When the King said goodbye.’
Royal pushed the hair from her forehead. Vague strands of memory came back, but she couldn’t plait them together. How had her father looked? Proud or distraught? Right now, she couldn’t recall his face.
‘Is he gone?’
‘Oh yes, Madam. They are all gone.’
They are all gone. The words were icy drips down the back of her dress. She was alone. Years and years would pass before she saw her family again. If she saw them again. No one to talk to who understood her. Her only company would be a man she did not even know.
What had she done?
A tear slid down her face. Annoyed, Royal brushed it away. She had made her decision and it couldn’t be undone. There was no turning back now.
The clock chimed. Royal stared at it, unable to believe the hands were right. ‘It’s late,’ she said, and as the words left her mouth she felt ill. It was night – her bridal night.
‘Come on then. Let’s get you ready.’ The maid crossed to a chest, opened a drawer and unfolded a glorious silk shift, trimmed with lace.
Royal swallowed, grimacing against the painful sensation in her throat.
‘Your Highness?’
Reluctantly, Royal levered her body onto its feet, leaving one hand hovering over the sofa in case she fell straight back down. But she was too afraid to faint. She stumbled into the centre of the room. It was unavoidable. She had to lie with her husband. It was her duty – and the only way to get a baby. She had spent years wanting this. Right now, she could not think why.
Her arms quivered, like thin branches in the wind, as she held them up for the maid to undress her. Without speaking, the woman unbuttoned Royal’s gown and swept it over her head. The bodice came off, the cage and hoop that held out her skirts. The moment the comforting weight of material left Royal’s skin, she shrivelled up. The maid eased the shift down over her body and tied the puff sleeves around her shaking arms. It was a beautiful garment, truly beautiful. But the wispy silk clung to her breasts, barely concealing them, and Royal felt a rush of air between her legs. She was exposed.
God help me. She didn’t know what her husband expected, but she was sure she couldn’t do it. She hugged her arms around herself as the maid let down her hair and brushed the ringlets into soft waves.
‘You’re cold,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you into bed.’
The last thing Royal wanted to think about was the bed. Lifeless, she let her attendant lead her toward the enormous four-poster, cold and ceremonial like everything else in St James’s Palace.
The maid pulled back the covers and Royal slithered between them. The sheets were cool; icy fingers against her goose-pimpled skin. She lay, stone-faced, as the girl tucked her in.
‘Thank you,’ she croaked.
The maid bobbed a curtsey and Royal realised, with a stab of terror, that she was leaving.
Stay! Stay and protect me! She tried to cry out but she had no voice. With one soft movement, the maid picked up the candle and retreated from the room. The door closed gently, but Royal winced as if it had slammed in her face.
The room fell into shadow with nothing but the clicking fire to shed any light. Her heart beat so strongly she felt its pulse in her throat. What now? Royal clutched at her covers, trying not to tear them. Like a child, she wanted to crawl down to the bottom of the bed and hide. The maid must have gone to fetch Fritz and tell him Royal was ready . . . Ready for what?
A footstep and the creak of a floorboard. Royal fought the hysteria that clawed against her chest. The door handle moved. She sank down into the pillow, willing it to swallow her. A small chink of light appeared in the doorway, then a flickering candle.
The man who was now her husband eased his way into the room. Even in this dim light, he looked enormous. His white shirt opened at the collar and fell down to his chubby knees. In the shadows, his night-capped head appeared small, a little rock on top of a mountain.
This was not how she had imagined it. She had pictured a muscular, athletic prince who made her giddy like George’s handsome friend, the Duke of Bedford. She had thought of herself as a warm and sensuous woman, ready to love an
d be loved. How stupid she’d been.
‘You are well, now?’
She couldn’t return his smile with her frozen lips. Instead, she nodded.
He waddled over to the bed and set the light down. The foreign scent of his skin reached Royal’s nostrils: clean linen, sweat, wine. He sat down heavily, rolled his fat legs up and crawled beneath the covers.
Hot panic swept over Royal. It seemed a hideous, abnormal thing to have a man in the bed beside her.
‘You must not be frightened.’ He turned on his side and she rolled helplessly toward him. ‘I will blow out the candle, if you like?’
The flame showed a gleam of desire in his eyes that deprived Royal of speech. Gratefully, she nodded again.
He puffed out his cheeks, blew, and darkness enveloped them. ‘I will be gentle.’
She could not doubt his kindness. Would she not come to love a man with such considerate manners in the fullness of time? How many princes would understand the fear that beat beneath a virgin’s breast?
It was then the gruesome realisation hit Royal like a musket ball in the stomach: he had done all this before. He was being kind to her, because he knew what it was like for a young woman; he had done the same thing with her cousin Augusta. She tried not to picture them together. Was it incestuous to bed this man, after her cousin?
The bed creaked as he edged toward her. To Royal’s absolute horror, his sausage fingers touched her neck and slid sensuously down, grazing her breast. She lay like a slab of ice. He fumbled with the ribbons at the front of her shift – her poor, thin, shift – and suddenly his cold hand was on her torso, cupping the tender flesh around her nipple.
Desperate with embarrassment, she wanted to cry, to push him off and tell him to stop. But in the next second his mouth came down, a wet clamp upon hers. She closed her eyes. His breath, at least, was sweet and his lips were soft. The warmth of his mouth gave her comfort. This wasn’t so bad. She sat up slightly and pushed her lips back against his. She would prove she wasn’t entirely hopeless.
But her response excited him. Before she knew what was happening, he tore at her pretty shift, pushing it down to her waist. Everything inside Royal screamed, but she knew she had to bear it. Think of a baby. Think of a baby. It was the only way to get one.
With a quick movement, he put a knee between Royal’s legs and eased them open. She braced herself; it was about to happen – whatever it was. Gasping, Fritz heaved himself on top of her, punching the air from her body. His skin was damp and sweaty against hers. She longed to pull away but she could barely move. The solid, heated part of him felt insanely large.
He kissed her again, arching his back into the air. Thankfully, his weight shifted and Royal drank in a breath through her nostrils. She was about to exhale when his weight crushed her and a searing, white-hot pain jolted through her.
Dear Lord. She had expected it to hurt, but this? Her muscles trembled, unable to cope with the pain. She had been right – she couldn’t do it. If she could draw breath she would cry out, plead with him. But his mouth locked firmly around hers and his huge, quivering belly squeezed the life out of her.
Royal could think of nothing, feel no sensation except the ripping, burning shocks inside her. She held on to Fritz’s arms, slippery with sweat, and their solidity kept her from fainting. She managed to let out a small whimper, but Fritz was oblivious to her, groaning and pumping away, faster and faster. Tears slid thick and rapid down Royal’s face.
Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, Fritz shook all over like a man with the ague. Braying out a long, moaning noise, he reared up and froze above her. She looked on, fascinated and horrified, as he quivered. Suddenly, he let out a breath and slumped, deflated, against her.
It must be over. Thank God.
His lips brushed limply against her cheek and then he fell motionless. Royal became aware of a sticky, slithering feeling between her legs. Little by little, the pain down below abated, as if it was running out of her with the liquid. Finally, the pressure against her private parts eased. Fritz wriggled and rolled off of her. The air smelt foul. Not just sweat, but some other sickly sweet, sharp scent. Royal shifted uncomfortably and gasped. When she moved there was a sudden, sharp pain, different from the horrendous pressure of Fritz’s love. It was like a cut or a bad bruise.
Fritz began to snore.
Gingerly, Royal slid her legs off the side of the bed and pressed her feet against the wooden floor. Her whole body shook uncontrollably. Unable to stand, she eased herself onto the ground and crawled toward the fire. Its gentle, warm touch was the closest thing to a hug she could get. How badly she needed her sisters, to throw her arms around them and weep on their shoulders. But they had all forsaken her.
She stopped, exhausted, in a shallow pool of light right by the hearth and looked down at herself. Blood. The defiled shift, tangled around her waist, was splattered with tiny blobs of red. A stream of dark liquid trickled from her, so she pulled her shift round and sat on it. The flow was not bad; a little less than a monthly cycle – but it smarted. So that was it, the great mystery: uncomfortable, embarrassing and almost brutal. That was what poets mused about, that was what made a baby. Royal pulled her knees up and hugged her arms around them. She never wanted it to happen again. Why had her mother not warned her?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hyde Park, London
Summer 1797
Moist, fragrant air filled Sophia’s lungs. The park stood out in vivid detail; each twig and leaf had sharp, defined edges beneath the lenses of her new spectacles. She adjusted them on the bridge of her nose and leant back in the saddle, leather creaking beneath her. It was unnerving to see the world so clearly after years of squinting at soft, melting shapes.
Officially, the court forbade spectacles, but Ernest said she should intervene and improve her vision in this age of discovery. He was right: it was time to shake off the confines of her weak body and live.
The clack of hooves beat a slow rhythm down the path. General Garth’s horse flicked its tail, swatting lazily at flies. Sophia’s own mount, Traveller, had a gentle, lilting step that rocked her as he walked.
‘Do you think she’s there yet?’
Sophia turned to Amelia, riding beside her. ‘Who?’
‘Royal, of course.’
‘Oh. I don’t know.’
In truth, Sophia had barely thought of Royal since she’d kissed her goodbye. She didn’t want to dwell on her sister’s happiness on this bright, warm day and darken it with the remembrance of Caroline’s words. Not fit for marriage.
Amelia tilted her head to watch the Serpentine flowing on the horizon. ‘I wonder what it is like,’ she said, ‘getting on a boat, knowing you may never see England again.’
‘I cannot imagine it.’ But of course she could. Sophia dreamed of every detail, fantasising about a marriage she would never have; the thrill of a kiss, warm arms around her, the soft wriggle of a baby on her chest.
Ernest put his reins in one hand and turned in the saddle. ‘We’re there.’
Sophia nodded. She pulled back on one rein, guiding Traveller’s head to the right. Amelia’s mount saw and mimicked the action without her command.
‘Hey-day! Where are we going?’
Sophia only smiled. She wasn’t used to keeping secrets from Amelia, but it felt delicious.
They wobbled as the horses adjusted their step to the uneven turf. Plodding across the grass, they came to a tree with branches spilling out of its trunk and cascading to the ground. It was like a giant green fountain, stopped in time.
Sophia aimed Traveller at a gap in the tangled wall of branches. After she and Amelia rode through, General Garth took up sentinel duty in front of the opening.
‘What’s going on?’ Amelia asked.
It was cool beneath the drooping foliage. The ground and air, so rarely disturbed by people, held their breath. Sophia patted Traveller’s neck, sending up a cloud of dust, then hopped off the side-saddle and
took hold of his nosestrap.
‘Sophia!’ Amelia looked afraid.
Sophia considered her sister, dismayed by how handsome she had grown. Her blonde hair sat in a chignon at the back of her head, held in with combs of silver filigree, while a thin calico dress clung to the growing curves of her body. Healthy. Eminently suitable for marriage.
‘Sophy, please!’
Sophia swatted the envious thoughts away. ‘We’re meeting someone,’ she told her.
It was regrettable she had to draw Amelia into this, but there was no other way to protect Sophia’s reputation. She couldn’t go skulking round bushes alone. Besides, she needed the moral support.
‘Who?’
At a crunch of twigs, Sophia swivelled around. It was only a bird adjusting its balance on a branch. She exhaled. ‘You can’t tell the Queen. Or George.’
Amelia pulled a face. ‘Well, if it’s such a big secret, why did you bring me?’
‘I cannot very well go off riding on my own, can I?’ Sophia scuffed the toe of her half-boot against the dirt. ‘And you are the only one I trust.’
Amelia leant forward, clutching at the pommel of her saddle. Her plump lips parted with excitement. ‘Have you got a lover?’
Sophia laughed bitterly. ‘Be serious.’
‘I am.’
‘I’m riding out with my brother, my little sister and a fifty-year-old equerry. Does it look like a romantic meeting to you?’
Amelia deflated, disappointed. ‘I guess not.’
‘I’m meeting Miss Garth.’
‘She won’t be able to find us in here.’
Sophia tutted in impatience. ‘She knows we’re meeting here. The whole idea is that no one else will see us. Mama would kill me if she found out.’
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