Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  Amelia looked down and fiddled with her horse’s mane. ‘I had better not get involved then.’

  A horse snorted. Sophia spun around. Every second, she expected the Queen to sweep in and punish her. It was all very well to talk of defiance and rebellion. The reality was terrifying. A slice of light ripped across their grotto as General Garth moved his mount aside, and in another second a female figure appeared, fighting her way through the branches.

  ‘Frances.’

  Miss Garth stumbled over raised roots in the soil, clutching the strings of her reticule in both hands. Sophia let go of Traveller and moved toward her, pressing her lips against her friend’s heated cheek.

  ‘How is it with George and Caroline?’ Sophia asked at once.

  ‘Terrible. They are talking about separate establishments.’

  The princesses stared at her. Surely the King would never allow such a thing?

  ‘They can’t,’ Sophia said. ‘Not a full separation. The scandal . . .’

  ‘It is too late. They will never live together now. She won’t even speak to him.’

  Sophia took a breath, thinking of poor Caroline. Her hopes were over, truly over. How shaming it must be. A marriage that had failed was worse than no marriage at all. It was degrading, imprisoning. And how would the King take it?

  Miss Garth groped in her reticule. ‘Here. An answer to your last letter.’

  Sophia pulled out a note from her bosom and exchanged it. ‘Tell Caroline I love her. God knows I’ve tried to speak up, but it’s no good. Everyone just shouts at me.’

  Amelia nodded from horseback. ‘It’s true. Mama is most displeased with her.’

  ‘My mistress would not want that.’

  ‘I can’t hold my tongue while she suffers like this,’ Sophia cried. ‘It breaks my heart.’

  ‘The Queen will break more than that if she finds you sneaking off to see Miss Garth,’ said Amelia.

  Miss Garth glanced at the gap in the tree. ‘Have you ever thought about my uncle?’

  ‘The General?’

  She nodded. ‘He can bring your letters to me, and to Princess Caroline. You can trust him.’

  Sophia watched the shadowy figure beyond the branches, a man she knew and yet did not. He was a recurring figure from her childhood, but she had never really noticed him behind the uniform. He looked somewhat ominous in silhouette. She felt a cold hand on her nape, warning her against it.

  ‘Will it not get your uncle into trouble?’

  ‘Not with the King.’ Miss Garth smiled. ‘He’s a favourite.’

  Sophia bit her lip, thinking fast. It did make sense. ‘I suppose even if Papa found out, he would not mind . . . he is very fond of Caroline.’

  Miss Garth nodded. ‘That’s settled, then. It is much less dangerous for you. I will tell him tonight.’

  Another conspirator in her growing circle. More and more people, likely to betray her to the Queen. Sophia shivered. What did she know of General Garth after all? Could he be trusted? She wondered if she had done the right thing. Sophia let five minutes pass after Miss Garth left before she pulled Traveller’s head up from cropping grass and edged cautiously toward the outside world. The park was still. She signalled to Amelia and walked out of the grotto, dragging the reluctant Traveller back into the light.

  There he was; General Garth, the man she must trust with her letters. He dismounted and stood ready to help her back into the saddle. Sophia gave him an uncertain smile as he put his hands on her waist. His grip was firm and warm. Assured.

  All those sentiments and opinions lying in his hot, strong hands . . . He could open anything, read anything, tell anything. She would be putting herself completely at his mercy.

  The General swung her into the saddle. She felt a little shock as he released her, suddenly aware of him, the strangeness and masculinity of him. She peered down from Traveller’s back, considering the man for the first time. He was short, about the height of a regular woman, and had a birthmark that extended down the side of his face like a splash of claret. It lent him a dangerous, fiendish look. Not pleasant but somehow exciting. She was being stupid, of course. He was no fiend. This man was her father’s trusted servant, the uncle of her friend, ready to help her contact Princess Caroline. A solider. A man of honour, undoubtedly. Nothing to arouse either interest or fear.

  He came forward to check Sophia’s girth and stirrup were secure. Through lowered eyelashes, she studied the offensive birthmark. What an odd thing. It varied in hue as it crossed his features, like watercolours washing across a canvas. Suddenly, it reminded her of the sunset, and became strangely beautiful.

  ‘All safe and sound now, Your Highness.’ The General looked up and smiled at her. It was a warm smile, the smile of a kind man. She had to turn away from it, feeling a little light-headed.

  Yes, she could trust him.

  Stuttgart

  Royal watched the countryside roll past as her carriage rumbled along the road. They had made it. A sickly Channel crossing, close run-ins with revolutionary soldiers, but they were in Württemberg at last.

  A rush of love, almost maternal, coursed through her as she watched the landscape. This was her homeland now: the tall corn, the rich woods, the fat cows – all were hers. She would look after this land. She would do it good, somehow.

  Fritz’s reflection appeared in the window, silent and thoughtful. She assessed him, her husband. It was still awkward between them. A kind of habitual fondness sprang up inside her and she did her best to nurture it, day by day. But she missed speaking freely. She longed for the day when she would know him well, make jokes. Right now, she knew his body intimately: what he looked like naked; the sound he made when he slept; the touch of his skin – and yet she was unacquainted with his mind. It was lonely.

  He caught her gaze in the glass. The journey furnished a topic of conversation, at least.

  ‘Are we close?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘You will see streets soon. And your people.’

  Royal smiled in response, but her stomach turned over. This was her moment. She had to shine. In all her dreams of freedom, she had never imagined the pressure. Important people simpered over her at drawing-rooms and balls, expecting her to say intelligent things. In Hanover, the common people had crowded round her carriage, begging to see the King’s daughter, and called out blessings on her head. She hoped they were not disappointed with the shy, quaking princess they saw.

  ‘Will I meet your parents when we get to Stuttgart?’

  ‘Just my Vater and the boys.’

  Royal shifted in her seat. This was one of Fritz’s key attractions: a ready-made family. Now the time had come to meet them, she was petrified. They too would expect things from her, compare her and say: how different she is from his last wife.

  ‘Do you think your sons will like me?’

  ‘Of course. I have told them they must call you Mama.’

  Her chest throbbed. How many years she had yearned for that name. But she knew the children would be the hardest to win over. ‘Oh, you mustn’t make them. They might not like to. Their own mother . . .’

  Fritz huffed. ‘They will like what I tell them to like,’ he said shortly. ‘Their first mother was nothing to you. They will not have any false loyalties.’

  Royal swelled at his favourable comparison. ‘And the little girl? When do I meet her?’

  ‘Trinette. She is at Ludwigsburg with my Mutter.’

  Royal exhaled, disappointment and relief blending within her. The meeting with this little girl was more important to her than any dignitary – more important, perhaps, than her introduction to Fritz. Her own daughter. It was all she had ever wanted.

  Gradually, the woods gave way to clover-speckled fields. As the hills dipped and softened, small dwellings appeared on the roadside and Royal knew their journey was coming to a close. She squeezed her hands together in her lap. Stuttgart nestled in a lush valley with hills and woods rising behind it. Vineyards, lakes and cobbled pa
ths sped past her eyes. Medieval architecture filled the streets with wobbly beige buildings. Royal’s head swivelled from left to right, trying to take it all in. Fritz chuckled at her curiosity.

  ‘I will show you it all, liebchen. Give me time.’

  All at once, Castle Square opened up before them, a magnificent horseshoe full of windows and engraved stone. It was a brand new, opulent palace. Royal could not conceal her wonder. Statues peered down at her from the roof as the carriage slowed and came to a stop.

  The jolt brought her back to reality. This was no sightseeing trip. It was time to make her first impression. Royal pushed down the rising nerves. Whatever she did, she must not ruin this one chance.

  A flock of footmen scurried toward them and flung open the door. Fritz sighed with satisfaction – this was all normal, all comfortable for him. Royal envied his ease. It was all right for him – no one was here to stare at the prince.

  He clambered out. When his weight left the carriage, it rocked, sending her sprawling. Hurriedly, she righted herself and smoothed down the layers of petticoats, linen and silk, just in time to look composed when her husband stretched out his palm to her. She slipped her little hand into his enormous paw, trying to conceal the tremor in her fingers. Her hair was probably all over the place. She closed her eyes as Fritz gripped onto her and guided her down the steps.

  A chorus of cheers burst into her ears. Her eyelids peeled back, cautiously, to reveal the city out in fete; ladies, gentlemen, dirty little children and tenant farmers crowded the square. She turned and straightened her hat so she could see them all. At the sight of her face, the crowd exploded like a powder keg. It was overwhelming. Royal thought she’d crossed the threshold into a new world on the day she married, but now she knew she was wrong; she had barely even started.

  A fountain played in the courtyard, its musical sound lost beneath the roars of the people. They weren’t roaring for peace and bread like the crowds in London. They actually seemed to like her. She saw two great pillars supporting a balcony, marking out the entrance to the palace. As Royal swept her eyes over the stone and down to the floor, her breath caught. It was them: her stepsons.

  She knew them instinctively. The taller one, the elder, was the very image of his father, though less stout. The younger was skinny and dark-haired; he reminded Royal of a colt.

  Fritz pulled her arm within his. ‘Come then, Charlotte.’

  She stopped, half-dazed. Charlotte. Yes, of course, she was Charlotte. She could be Charlotte here, with no Queen to claim her name. Her face split into a beaming smile. The sun broke through a layer of cloud and caressed her cheek. She had done it. She was out of her cloister and life was beginning, truly beginning, for her at last.

  It did not take Royal long to discover that the Duke and Duchess of Württemberg were not like the King and Queen of England. They did not want to live in a simple, unpretentious way, with plain dinners of cold meat, salad and stewed pears. They were royalty and determined to live on the fat of the land.

  Stuttgart was grand, but it was nothing compared to the palace of Ludwigsburg. Her new home spread out across rich countryside, its cream walls baking in the sunlight. They drove to the entrance under an avenue of chestnuts and limes, and through the branches she saw the sheer mass of the place, its huge white columns and urns on the terrace. The ground sloped down at the front of the house, giving way to a lake with a jet of water bursting from its centre. Beyond that, close to the entrance of the palace, hints of the formal gardens peeked out: neat rows of trimmed hedges, flowerbeds and topiary.

  Mine. This is all mine.

  Royal looked across at Fritz, incredulous. ‘We live here?’

  The boys giggled at her stupid question.

  ‘You do not like it?’ Fritz teased.

  She laughed, a sort of hysterical laugh, drunk with joy, and pressed her nose against the window. Plain old Royal, the mistress of such a palace? How would she ever grow fine enough to deserve it?

  The carriage pulled up with a crunch on the gravel. A bevy of servants descended on them, scuttling off with trunks, bandboxes and hatboxes. Fritz helped Royal down the steps.

  ‘Where now?’ she asked. She longed for a warm bath, several cups of tea and a soft bed. She needed to revive before she could absorb any more.

  ‘The Great Hall.’

  She grimaced. That didn’t sound like a place to recuperate. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘My Mutter and Trinette.’

  Her head swam. ‘I cannot meet them now! I am all dusty from the road.’

  ‘That does not matter.’ He seized her hand and marched her helplessly on through the vast corridors.

  The Great Hall was like a cathedral. Fritz’s father, the Duke, and the two boys, Wilhelm and Paul, crossed the long, cold floor in front of Royal and Fritz. Their footsteps clicked in unison as they passed under lustrous chandeliers and a ceiling painted with angels.

  It was beautiful, but Royal could not take it in. She was like a blinkered horse, staring at the ladies at the end of the room.

  If only she’d had time to prepare! Her mouth was dry, her brain tired and unable to form words. What a fright she must look, with wind-matted hair and a dusty, mudsplashed travelling habit. Excruciatingly nervous, she kept her eyes trained on her feet. She was dismayed to see her boots covered in filth.

  At last they came to a halt. Royal curtseyed on trembling legs, still not trusting herself to look up. She felt the proximity of her new daughter like a strong tug underneath her ribcage, and sensed the young eyes judging her. It was like being a girl again, under the scrutiny of the Queen.

  ‘My dears!’

  Warily, Royal winched her eyes from the floor, expecting to see a mother-in-law just like the Queen of England: slender, cold and austere. But the woman before her melted that image away. The Duchess of Württemberg was pleasantly round; in her mid-sixties with pale grey hair pulled back from her forehead and arranged in curls. She kissed Royal on both cheeks. ‘Meine Tochter, my Charlotte. Come – meet Trinette.’ She took Royal by the hand, a motherly scent of lavender rising from her skin, and led her toward a teenage girl. In another instant, Royal faced her daughter.

  She was beautiful. Dark-chocolate hair looped up into a loose bun at the back of her head, setting off enormous brown eyes in a pale face. A light dusting of freckles – not enough to look vulgar – and an elegant bow mouth completed the image of perfection. Royal could have wept at the sight of her.

  But she wasn’t a pet to be stared at and cooed over. Suddenly the brown eyes met hers, questioning, assessing.

  ‘H-Hello.’ Royal fought against her stammer to squeeze the word out.

  Her heart brimmed with sentiments she couldn’t articulate. I am a friend. I will be your best friend. She willed Trinette to understand her, but it would take time. For now she was just a strange, travel-worn woman who had turned up on her door-step, trying to take her mother’s place.

  Trinette looked uncertainly at the duchess. When she nodded, Trinette bobbed a curtsey. ‘Hello, Mother.’ The name sounded unnatural in her little mouth. Forced.

  Royal blazed with the memory of herself at this age, selfconscious before the Queen. The last thing she wanted to do was make Trinette feel like that. But how could she put her at ease, when she was flustered herself?

  ‘I have just l-left your Aunt Caroline in London,’ she tried. ‘She charges me to send her love.’

  Trinette nodded, as if her aunt was of no consequence to her. She was busy dissecting Royal’s gown, her hair, her hat. How did she compare to Trinette’s mother, cousin Augusta? Unfavourably, she feared. Give me a chance. Please, let me try.

  The duchess laid an arm around Trinette’s shoulders. ‘Your new Mama is not just related to you by law. She is family. Your mother was her first cousin.’

  This caught the girl’s interest. ‘Really?’ Her eyes seemed to cut straight through Royal’s dress and skin to the blood pulsing beneath. Blood that they shared.

>   The Duchess smiled. ‘Charlotte’s grandfather was your great-grandfather. You are blood relations.’

  For the first time, Trinette’s face opened. She turned quickly to her grandmother and hissed in her ear. Though she tried to whisper, Royal heard every word.

  ‘Do you think my mother would like it? Knowing her cousin came to look after us?’

  Poor cousin Augusta, long dead. Cold fingers crept up Royal’s arms and down her back. She was encroaching on her cousin’s territory, walking in her footsteps. Augusta stood where Royal stood now; she slept where Royal would sleep. Then she lost it all, in a puff of smoke that had never really cleared. What did happen to her?

  The duchess smiled so warmly, and hugged Trinette so close, it was hard to believe anything sinister had ever taken place inside this palace. It must have been a misunderstanding. There was no other explanation.

  ‘I am sure your mother would be very pleased,’ the duchess said. There was certainly no guilt in her face. ‘I am sure of it.’

  Queen’s House, London

  Charlotte tightened her grip on the King’s elbow. ‘Please, you must stop encouraging her! Is it not bad enough that the papers take her side? Must George have his own father against him too?’

  He patted her hand as if he was calming a fretful horse. ‘Peace, my dear, peace! I am not against George! I want the best for both him and Caroline.’

  Charlotte made an impotent noise of frustration and bowed her head. It was a glorious day, but the warm weather failed to cheer her. The terrace reflected light back into her face and heat pressed through her clothing, chafing against her skin.

  She would have thought that with all the pressures on the King, George and Caroline could at least pretend to get along. It was not like they needed to spend time in each other’s company – there were a thousand and one ways they might avoid being together. But like children, they refused to play nicely. And here was Caroline, running to tittle-tattle on the nasty boy that pulled her hair.

  ‘You must not let Caroline think she can send George’s letters on to you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Of all the childish things . . .’