Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  The King pulled her aside to sit on a white iron bench. The metal seat scorched through Charlotte’s thin calico gown.

  ‘My love, I have returned the letters to her. She can be in no doubt that I disapprove of her actions.’

  ‘Good! What did you say?’

  The King spread his palms. ‘I told her she must try her best to make her home agreeable. I said submission is a woman’s greatest virtue and she must practise it if she wants to win George’s esteem.’

  A wry smile flicked up the corner of her lip. ‘That is the answer I would have expected from you.’

  ‘If she meant to enrage me against George, she has not succeeded. His letter seems quite sensible. He’s willing to live on terms of civility and good humour, I think. There is just one paragraph that bothers me.’

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes?’

  He looked at the crowd of courtiers, who had stopped at a respectable distance from them. ‘I cannot speak candidly here. It is enough to say that, if some accident happened to little Charlotte – which God forbid! – he would not insist upon another heir.’

  Charlotte shuddered, finding she could not blame her son. Caroline was repellent enough fully clothed and five feet away.

  She gazed up at the redbrick palace, its windows glinting in the sunshine. Of all the royal residences, it was the most like her first home in Mecklenburg-Strelitz. She thought of her childhood years and felt an intense pity for little Charlotte, whose infancy was far from happy. Fancy being torn between two parents, each immature and selfish! A thought occurred to her. ‘We must get the child here, with us.’ It would be perfect – a distraction for the King, to stop him missing Royal, and a balm to Charlotte’s heart.

  The King looked thoughtful. ‘Away from her mother?’

  Of course, away from her hateful mother. She was astounded that he would hesitate to separate them. But that Caroline was a worming, serpentine woman; she burrowed inside his head, twisting the truth.

  ‘Away from all of this. I do not trust Caroline to educate her as a queen should be taught. I do not even trust George with that task.’

  The King sighed and raised his eyes to the pale blue sky. ‘She needs to be with her parents.’

  ‘What an example, though! Even Sophia has been misbehavung since Caroline came along. She’s a dangerous influence, George. A danger to our granddaughter.’

  He put out his walking cane and heaved himself up. Once standing, he offered Charlotte a hand. ‘I will think on it,’ he said, closing the topic.

  Time to tread carefully; forcing the issue would only make him ill. But a little hint here and there . . . A little reminder each day . . . She would corrode his defences, as imperceptibly as the sea ate away at the shore. If her daughters were going to leave her like Royal, she would replace them with a granddaughter. An heir to the throne who would never abandon her native English soil. She put her palm in his and rose. ‘Of course,’ she said, all wifely meekness. ‘I will submit to your opinion.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Windsor

  Autumn 1797

  A fine mist lay over Windsor, diluting the scenery. Sophia made her way down to the stables, noticing detail in the landscape for the first time thanks to her spectacles. Beads of dew clung to the leaves and jewelled spider webs stretched across the bushes. A chilly, damp sort of day, but to her it was beautiful. Everything was weirdly focused and alive, as it always was on this one day of the week. The day she got to see him.

  Her heart thundered beneath her warm cape. Her stomach was a mess of nerves and excitement, but she did not want to turn back. A strange blissful fear coursed through her, pushing her legs forward. She couldn’t explain the fascination that had suddenly gripped her. Even in moments of quiet reflection, she did not admit the truth to herself. She attributed the flutter of her spirits to illness, to concern over Caroline.

  With her spectacles, she made out the black iron clock standing in the stable yard. The hands pointed to the precise time of her appointment and, sure enough, a short figure waited beneath the clock. Sophia smiled, her breath suspended. He was always punctual.

  The yard was warm with the smell of hay. Sophia picked her way over the cobbles, hurdling piles of muck and dodging wheelbarrows. She was acutely aware of General Garth watching her, conscious of every movement she made. It was imperative, for some reason she could not articulate, that she didn’t appear foolish in front of him.

  When she finally reached General Garth, he doffed his three-cornered hat. ‘Your Royal Highness.’

  She smiled – too broadly. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you looking so well. You were a little indisposed last week, I recall?’

  Sophia couldn’t meet his earnest eyes, full of concern. ‘I was. How kind of you to remember.’

  ‘I must remember; my niece presses me for every detail about you.’

  No words sprang to mind. She had nothing to say. Every nerve was strained, intent on the closeness of him. They stood a while, silent, listening to the calls of the stable boys and the scrape of grooming brushes against the horses’ thick winter coats.

  ‘I have heard some news that may interest you, Your Royal Highness.’

  Sophia peeped up and saw him tap the side of his nose, before putting the other hand in his pocket. He drew the corner of a letter over the top. It gave her a sense of guilty anticipation unlike anything she had known before.

  ‘You can tell me later. First, would you be kind enough to take me to my horse? There was a little hobble in his gait yesterday, which I fear may be lameness.’

  His face twinkled at her convincing lie, spoken loud for all to hear. ‘But of course.’

  He led her into the stalls, where the early morning light broke through the wood in anaemic puddles, patterning the straw-littered ground. It was blissfully peaceful. No people, no bustle. The only sound was the constant scratch and chomp of horses eating hay. Sophia closed her eyes briefly, wanting to keep hold of the moment.

  ‘Here.’ She pulled two folded squares of paper from her hand-muff: one for Miss Garth, one for Caroline. Garth took them, tucked them carefully inside the inner pocket of his scarlet coat and then held out letters for Sophia.

  She knew she should hide them away, but she didn’t. She gazed at her illicit treasures, running her fingers along the folds of the paper. They made her feel breathless, excited. Her palms tingled as she held them. ‘Do you ever read them?’

  Garth looked at her sharply. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The letters.’ She was ashamed. Why had she said a stupid thing like that? Perhaps she wanted him to read them, wanted him to admit he had an interest in her life.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Sophia blushed and traced Caroline’s writing with her index finger. Of course not. As if he would care about the scribbling of a foolish young lady.

  ‘Please don’t think I’m accusing you,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just . . . Letters are such private things, aren’t they? All those secrets . . . I think I would be tempted.’

  He laughed and shook his grey head. ‘By the time you reach my age, your curiosity fades.’

  That was not how she pictured him at all; old and jaded. ‘Surely not. Does nothing surprise you anymore?’

  He considered. The soft whinny of a horse vibrated through the silence. ‘People surprise me,’ he said at last. ‘And . . . feelings.’

  Sophia’s heart kicked unexpectedly at the soft tone of his voice. Feelings for whom? She covered her confusion with a show of humour. ‘Feelings? In Windsor? Sir, you may be my elder but I have to lecture you: such things are not tolerated here.’

  She chuckled, but Garth turned to her with infinite sadness in his weather-beaten features.

  ‘Poor Sophia. You wouldn’t be a princess if you could choose it, would you?’

  She froze. How did he know? ‘No, I would not.’ She felt naked, exposed. If he could glimpse her sentiments, surely he knew the o
ther secret of her heart, the one it shouted every moment? Her voice quavered. ‘But these things cannot be helped. It is like your profession: some are born to it, others are pressed into it.’

  Garth leant over the stable door and clucked his tongue. Lazily, Traveller moved his head toward him and snorted.

  Still wobbly, Sophia pulled a handful of hay from the net and fed it into the horse’s velvety lips. ‘What about you, General Garth? Did you choose to be a soldier?’

  He looked round at her. ‘Not exactly. A third son must make his living somehow – the army seemed a better option than the church or the law.’

  A choice, all the same. He didn’t know how lucky he was. ‘There, see – I would love to travel with the army and cannot; you are forced to it! Yet we both serve the King. Shall we swap?’

  He laughed. ‘I fear I would ill become your elegant gowns.’

  Sophia swallowed as he ran his eyes over her apparel. Did he think her elegant? No, no. He probably saw her as a daughter. ‘Never mind. Let us hope you will marry your fortune one day and be free.’

  Garth scratched Traveller underneath the forelock. ‘I have left that a little late. I will be fifty-four on my next birthday.’

  ‘A rich widow, sir?’ she teased. ‘You are too quick to give up hope.’

  ‘Ah, but you do not know how exacting I am. Very few of your rich widows would match my high standards.’

  She paused. Was this meant for her? A gentle hint, a caution to check her feelings? She hardly knew what to think. All she could do was match his jovial tone and pretend she had no interest in the state of his heart. ‘Then list your requirements, sir! I will find someone for you. What qualities should I seek in your ideal lady?’

  He gave her a wry smile. His eyes held hers just a little longer than they should. ‘I had better not say.’

  Scharnhausen

  ‘I don’t know. I do not want to worry Papa unless I have to.’

  Royal stood on the driveway and watched Fritz heave himself onto a horse. He took his gun from a servant and slung it over his shoulder.

  ‘You have to,’ he told her, picking up the reins. ‘No one can avoid this war – no matter how delicate their sensibilities.’

  She bristled. Was that a slight against her father? She could hardly believe they were quarrelling already. It had all been going so well. They had spent a few lovely weeks away with the children, relishing their honeymoon period. The hunting lodge, Scharnhausen, was a gem of a palace, smothered in woodland with powdery cream walls. But now Fritz’s friends had arrived and intruded on their solitude, talking politics, forcing the real world upon their notice.

  ‘I know your sister urges you to fight the French,’ Royal said, smoothing over her irritation, ‘but she is in Russia, wife to a Tsar. Think of the size of her army, compared to ours! She does not realise what she is asking.’

  ‘Which is why you need to persuade your father to take the duchy under his protection.’

  She drew in a breath and bit back her retort. Fritz, like the King, was a man to be managed carefully. She could not make him out. Abrupt, yet tender; often laughing, but angered by strange, inconsequential things.

  She watched him, looking for the affectionate Fritz who shared her bed, the urbane Fritz who kissed her hand over breakfast. He had evaporated like morning mist. What remained was an inflexible prince with a weapon in his grasp. The bulk of him dominated his steed, making it look a mere pony as his powerful presence filled the saddle and his firm hands gripped the reins.

  ‘I will try.’ Royal murmured. She had no choice.

  Fritz took her by surprise. Turning in his saddle, he put the reins in one hand and blew her a kiss. Her cheeks burned with girlish pleasure.

  ‘Thank you, Engel. Thank you.’

  He kicked back his heels, wheeled round and cantered off with his hunting party, into a thick coppice of trees blushing with the first hues of autumn. Royal watched the foliage envelop him and sighed. Her feelings were tangled like a mess of embroidery ribbon.

  One moment she was ready to throw herself at his feet, do anything for sheer love of him. The next . . . exasperated. Afraid of his temper. Missing the King. Far away as she was, she still balanced on a tightrope, afraid what one false move would do to her father’s mind. She could not banish him from her thoughts just because she no longer lived with him.

  She turned toward the hunting lodge and ambled back past the columns to the colonnade. Laughter floated down from the windows upstairs, where the children studied. It lifted her spirits. Once she had written to the King, she could go and sit with Trinette and be happy again. It was the right thing to do. Her duty was to her husband now.

  Royal entered the hallway and headed to her morning room, wondering what to write. The wording had to convey Württemberg’s perilous situation, but not cause alarm. She had to persuade, appeal to her father’s love, without stirring other emotions. It was a task as delicate as needlepoint – but with stitches that could not be undone.

  In her room, all was tranquil and still. No fire burned in the grate, but she didn’t mind. The air was cleaner and easier to breathe without the scent of wood or coal. She picked up her writing slope, selected a quill and took a chair next to the window. Words refused to come. Reluctance toyed with her, offering a variety of distractions. The woodland outside her window crisped at the edges. Before long, it would be winter again and the leaves would drop. What would her first winter in Württemberg be like? Trinette talked of sledging parties and ice skates. But no, she must concentrate. She smoothed out a sheet of paper. As her hands moved, she felt an odd flutter in her stomach, almost like nerves. She dipped her quill in ink and wrote a few lines, but the sensation kept interrupting her, a soft butterfly, drifting in and out of her consciousness.

  She gazed out the window once more. Fields stretched before the house, sloping down to the woods. A wispy mist floated above the grass and a pheasant darted through it into the trees.

  A light tap sounded at the door. Relieved, Royal threw down her quill and stood.

  ‘Enter.’

  Her Mistress of the Robes, Madame de Spiegel, shuffled in carrying a basket of sewing. ‘I beg your pardon, princess. I thought you might like a little company.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Please, sit down and talk to me. Talk of anything but this horrid war.’

  Madame de Spiegel smiled and obeyed. She sat on the sofa with her embroidery hoop, chatting amiably about deer and grouse. Out in the distant woods, a gun popped. ‘Ah,’ said Madame de Spiegel, ‘another bird for the table. Poor creature.’

  Unease wrapped itself around Royal’s chest like a pair of tight stays. The cracking, hollow sound of the shot recalled summer days in England, watching the troops out for review in Hyde Park. Then, they had marched and fired for the sake of ceremony, but now the armies of Europe stalked across the land with a deadly purpose. What if the French descended on Württemberg and swarmed across it like a horde of blue locusts? What if her men ended up like the soldiers from the American war: missing limbs, reduced to begging on the street, gunpowder ingrained into their skin? Was she going to sit there and watch it happen? No. Fritz was right. She had to write to her father, she had to try and prevent it.

  Picking up her quill with determination, she gave it a fresh coat of ink, laid it on the page – and jumped. The door banged open and a servant darted across the room. The speed of his movement sent her letter drifting to the floor. He gave Royal the briefest nod before flying to Madame de Spiegel and whispering in her ear.

  ‘What is it?’ Royal cried.

  Ignoring her, the servant straightened up and sped out of the door, leaving it wide open behind him.

  Madame de Spiegel stood, her movements stiff and deliberately calm. ‘Apparently Prince Wilhelm wishes to speak with me.’

  The fluttering in Royal’s stomach returned with renewed force. ‘What can he have to say that I cannot hear?’

  ‘Probably a servant’s quarrel. They work themselves i
nto a fuss over nothing. Do not worry, I will be back soon.’ Madame de Spiegel finished packing her needlework and left, refusing to meet Royal’s eye. She closed the door with a tender softness, as if leaving a sleeping baby.

  Royal felt sick. What was it? Something too horrible for words. She recalled the last time servants had kept information from her: her father’s illness. Nausea overwhelmed her. It couldn’t be a mere quarrel; something had happened. Something to do with the soldiers, or with Fritz . . .

  She heard shouts and carriage wheels splashing through puddles. In an instant she was up, out of her chair, pressing her face against the windowpane. She gripped the frame with both hands. Nothing but a clump of dark trees met her eyes. Pearly mist rolled toward them, retreating from the autumn sun.

  ‘Princess?’

  Royal leapt at the sound and fell into the window seat.

  Madame de Spiegel stood halfway across the threshold, her hand wrapped around the side of the door. Her face was soft and lined with pity.

  ‘Oh, my dear madam! You look ill.’

  ‘You f-f-frightened me,’ Royal stuttered. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Will you come into the garden?’

  Oh, God. That wasn’t an answer. What terrible secret had to be told in the garden rather than right here, right now? Images from the past swarmed around her. Madame de Spiegel had the same look – yes, the exact same! – Lady Harcourt had given the Queen in her distress: soothing, commiserating. Royal reached out her hands and Madame de Spiegel clasped them. Limp as a wet feather, she leant against her attendant and stumbled from the room.

  Her vision was speckled. Noise distorted; she couldn’t make out anything around her until she felt a whip of cool air on her face and inhaled the sharp scent of decaying leaves. Madame de Spiegel pressed her onto a stone seat. It was damp against Royal’s thighs and she shivered.

  ‘What’s happened to my husband? I’m sure it must be my husband.’

  Madame de Spiegel chaffed her cold hands and made a hushing sound. ‘It is your husband, madam.’