Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  Royal gasped but Madame de Spiegel was quick to interject. ‘It is nothing to alarm you. A fall from his horse, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all!’ Royal echoed. ‘That is enough! Is he hurt?’

  ‘Only a little. Mainly bruising. Prince Wilhelm has sent for a surgeon, but we are a good three hours’ ride from anywhere.’

  The tracks of Royal’s tears were cold against her cheeks. Fear and relief fought inside her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She had to move and do something. Anything to shake off the cold grip of horror. ‘I must write,’ she said. ‘I must tell the duke and duchess what has happened.’ Royal stood and felt how unequal her legs were to the task. Defeated, she slumped down again.

  ‘All in good time,’ said Madame de Spiegel. ‘Sit here for a moment. When you are recovered, I will take you to the prince.’

  What a weak, wretched thing Royal was. No support in a time of crisis; a fainting, hysterical wife. And not even an obedient one. She had argued with him, refusing to write to her father. Fritz could have been killed and her last words to him would have been angry ones. Less than a year as a wife and already she was unkind, rebellious. The shame was unbearable.

  ‘I will go to him now,’ she declared.

  Her legs were like liquid, but she forced them to hold her weight. She had to prove her worth. Fritz was everything. Not England; not the King. Württemberg was her home now and her loyalty lay with Fritz. She had been an ingrate to think otherwise.

  She stood up and propelled herself, toward the house and the man she loved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Queen’s House, London

  Winter 1797

  Charlotte shifted her granddaughter on her lap and placed the girl’s small cheek against her breast. The child snuggled in closer and closed her coral eyelids. There were tiny blue veins, faint as gossamer, within them. She put a protective palm over the child’s head. If only it could shield her from the war between her parents.

  Was it Charlotte’s fault? If she had encouraged and advised Caroline, would the marriage have turned out differently? She thought not. George was determined to get rid of his wife, even if he did not have a replacement to hand. Charlotte’s letter to Mrs Fitzherbert had produced no effect; the Catholic still shied away from a reunion like a nervous filly. The marriage was disintegrating from inside, without her help, and nothing could suck the poison out.

  It would be for the best, in the long term; little Charlotte would be safe from the influence of her wicked mother and fit to sit on the throne of England. But in the meantime, she must be batted about between enemy lines, not knowing whom to love or believe.

  Charlotte dwelt upon her granddaughter’s tiny, flushed features and soft, delicate eyelashes. Definitely a Hanover child – not a Brunswicker. She was so like George as an infant that it made Charlotte ache. Had it really been thirty-five years since she held him like this: a hot, squidgy little body in her arms? Desire stirred within her; not desire for another child, exactly – more a deep nostalgia – a fervent wish she could go back in time and do it all again. Do it better.

  ‘The King!’

  Charlotte and her ladies rose to their feet with a flap of their taffeta gowns. Little Charlotte opened her clear blue eyes.

  ‘What a pleasant sight!’ the King approached them with outstretched arms.

  Charlotte noticed sheets of paper folded in his hand. News about the war? Lists of the navy’s demands? She tried not to let the apprehension show in her face.

  ‘So sorry I was detained. Has she been here long?’

  ‘Only half an hour or so.’ Charlotte gave the infant into his ready embrace.

  He swept his granddaughter round and round, making her squeal with glee. Charlotte averted her eyes, trying not to remember him doing the same thing with her poor, dead Octavius. So long ago now, yet the wound was still fresh, the scab easily removed.

  ‘You have a letter to show me?’ she asked.

  The King stopped his game and turned. ‘Hmm?’

  She nodded at his hand, clutching the mass of crumpled paper.

  ‘Oh! Yes. Lady Elgin, take the little love for me, will you?’

  Their small granddaughter tottered off with her governess toward the other ladies, eager to play.

  The King sighed. ‘Such a good-tempered child. It’s a bad business, my dear.’

  ‘Have they come to an agreement yet? George and Caroline?’

  He blew out his cheeks. ‘Yes and no. Poor Caroline. My God, Charlotte, some of the things she writes to me . . .’

  ‘Is the letter from Caroline?’ It would be like the blasted girl to send another of her melodramatic stories and upset the King. Was she not content with making the prince miserable?

  He looked at his hand again, as if surprised by it. ‘Oh! No. This is from Royal.’

  Charlotte frowned, allowing Caroline to float from her mind like a light fog. Royal had not written to her in weeks. She was just like the rest, always favouring her father.

  ‘Another begging letter to use your influence for Württemberg?’ she guessed. ‘That husband of hers is shameless.’

  George smiled. ‘No, he won’t be bothering me for a while. He’s fallen from his horse.’

  ‘Is he hurt?’

  The King scratched his ear. ‘Not much. A broken arm. Though the way Royal runs on, you would think him in mortal danger.’ He chuckled.

  ‘It must have been a shock.’ Charlotte lowered her head, weighed down with memories. ‘In a strange country with only a husband as your friend . . . the thought of losing him is terrifying.’

  The King put his hand on hers and smiled warmly. If he really knew all she had suffered, he would not smile.

  ‘And she hasn’t her mother’s nerves of steel. But it looks like old Fritz has been more than considerate. The first thing he did after the accident was get her away from the house; he didn’t want the sight of him being carried in to distress her.’

  Charlotte cocked an eyebrow. ‘So says Royal. She is besotted – I would not take her word for it.’ She was conscious of a horrible sneer as she said the word besotted. Fresh, hopeful love curdled her blood now, like bad milk. And she was still angry with Royal. Why would she not come to her mother with this? Charlotte was the one who could understand her feelings and give her sound advice.

  ‘I hope it’s true,’ he said. ‘She will need a kind husband now more than ever. She is with child.’

  Blood rushed past Charlotte’s ears. ‘Really? She’s sure?’

  He nodded. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  It was wonderful. The child that grew inside Charlotte had a child growing inside her. All the perils of Charlotte’s own first pregnancy came flooding back: the illness, the fears of death in childbirth.

  ‘I won’t be there,’ she fretted. ‘Royal will need me and I won’t be there.’

  George squeezed her shoulder. ‘She will be fine. You had fifteen children without your mother’s help! I am sure Fritz’s parents will take good care of her.’

  It was hardly the point – she’d need her real mother. Or would she? Charlotte paused as a stinging realisation dawned on her. ‘She didn’t write to me.’

  The King shrugged. ‘She knew I would tell you.’

  So that was how it was. Charlotte was inconsequential, a person to be told by proxy. The wound was deep, but she could not let it show. ‘Still. It’s the kind of thing a girl tells her mother.’

  The King observed the working of her face and smiled ruefully. ‘Do you see what I mean, now? It is no good for me to take little Charlotte away from Caroline. A child always needs its mother. Do you not agree?’

  A mean comparison to make. She slid her gaze to where her pretty granddaughter played with the ladies-in-waiting. It would be easy, as an unloved wife in a foreign place, to build your life around such a cherub. Charlotte recalled the agony of being prised apart from Alfred and Octavius; a pain so intense it echoed through the years. Did Caroline feel the sam
e way? The answer was swift and ice cold: no. Such a woman was incapable of tender emotions. And she certainly did not deserve this angel of a daughter with rosy cheeks and a merry laugh. The need to possess the child, to keep it, throbbed through Charlotte until it made her eyes water. She would be her comfort, her solace. God knew she needed one.

  She looked the King straight in the eye and dared, for once in their marriage, to tell the truth.

  ‘No,’ she said simply. ‘No, I don’t agree with you.’

  Ludwigsburg

  A baby. It hardly seemed possible to Royal that beneath her own unremarkable skin, new life was growing.

  She attempted to concentrate on the sheet of paper in front of her, but her eyes kept falling to her stomach. Under her velvet dress, she was heavy laden like an apple tree in autumn. She bit the feather of her pen. It was important to finish her letter to England; war raged around her new home and both Austrian and French troops marched through Stuttgart daily, foraging and plundering. Already her beautiful new land had lost much. Fritz was relying on her to gain the King’s support. And yet . . .

  Royal’s stomach was a gentle curve, perfectly round. It was a bubble, with just her and the baby inside; war and politics could clamour around them, but they heard none of it.

  Madame de Spiegel looked up from her embroidery. ‘What are you hoping for? A boy or a girl?’

  ‘A girl,’ Royal said too quickly. They laughed. ‘Of course, I would still love a boy . . .’

  Madame de Spiegel nodded. ‘I understand. There is something special between a mother and her daughter, is there not?’

  Was there? Royal wound her relationship with the Queen round in her mind like a skein of silk. She only recalled frustration and humiliation, shot through with odd strands of kindness. But she could not confess that to a servant. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  She put her hand on her swollen belly and felt a sharp point like an elbow. Why did she want a daughter so badly? She didn’t like to admit it, even to herself. Part of her – a small part – believed having a little girl would put everything right – somehow make up for her own thwarted teenage years. She would be the type of mother her own should have been.

  ‘The prince’s friend Count Zeppelin has arrived,’ Madame de Spiegel said, interrupting her thoughts.

  Royal looked out of the window, framed with frost, to the park where thick snow coated the ground. The hedges stooped beneath the weight of their white burden and the lake had frozen over.

  ‘Really? He came in this weather? Well. I’m sure I’ll see nothing of my husband now.’

  ‘Nonsense. You must not listen to the rumours.’

  Royal turned in surprise. She had spoken in jest, but there was something in her companion’s voice that was absolutely serious.

  ‘What rumours?’

  Madame de Spiegel coloured and concentrated on threading her needle. ‘Oh, nothing. Foolish stuff.’ She was clearly uncomfortable. Royal twirled her pen between her fingers and her mind turned too, rotating the rumours she had heard about Fritz. It was common knowledge that he and Count Zepplin were close – very close – almost inseparable. She wondered what else was whispered. It seemed everyone had a terrible story about her husband. Uneasiness stole around her, cold and prickly. She shook it off – she had no reason to complain. Fritz had done right by her. Not only had he rescued her from stagnant spinsterhood, he had given her the greatest gift it was possible to bestow: a child. She had to stop doubting him. The indissoluble knot was tied and the baby would cement the pact. A good wife should let rumours roll right off her shoulders.

  Royal put her pen down with a sigh. ‘I cannot do this now. Shall we walk?’

  ‘Not outside?’

  Royal laughed at Madame de Spiegel’s shocked expression. ‘In the gallery, then.’

  ‘You have to rest, in your condition.’

  ‘My mother had fifteen children. I never saw her sit down while she carried them.’

  ‘You English are made of stern stuff.’

  Royal put a hand to the small of her back and stretched. ‘I hate it when pregnant women fuss. I’m growing new life, not dying.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Madame de Spiegel, ‘you must take it easy.’

  Before they had put away their things, quick footsteps sounded on the stairs. Alarmed, Royal looked at her companion. With a war surrounding them, a messenger could mean anything. She imagined bayonets and cannon, the smoke of battle. She clasped her hands around her stomach.

  Fritz flung through the door, panting with exhaustion, his face a deathly white. His bad arm was still strapped across his chest with bandages.

  Royal set her teeth, ready for the bullet. ‘My love, what’s happened?’

  He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘My Vater is dead.’

  Royal gasped and she started toward her husband. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’ Tears misted her eyes, tokens of her own grief for the poor duke, but she put them aside. Fritz came first. She knew how she would feel under such a crushing blow. The loss of her father – whether to death or madness – would be the worst possible news.

  But as she reached Fritz, he waved her away. ‘I am all right.’

  She recoiled, stung. She had no idea how to comfort him. ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘Terrible. She is in hysterics. They are sending Trinette to us.’

  ‘Of course.’ Royal hesitated. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just look after the girl for me. I have much business to attend.’

  Business. As she thought of the ledger books, the official seals and the blotted ink, clarity burst upon her.

  ‘Of course you do. You are the Duke, now.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is all on my shoulders. And there is a war going on.’

  More commotion in the hallway. Royal turned and saw Trinette stumble into the room. Poor child! Her eyes were big and red, her cheeks stained with tears. Instinctively, Royal opened her arms. Trinette had none of her father’s pride. She flew across the floor, a black streak, and threw herself into Royal’s embrace.

  ‘Mama,’ she said, for the first time.

  Despite everything, Royal smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Lower Lodge, Windsor

  1798

  Mary and Amelia pored over music sheets, clunking out disjointed notes on the spinet. Sophia sat apart in the corner with a candle and scraps of blotted paper. The sight of her sisters playing and singing, so vital and full of health, filled her with dismay. Princes would come for them, marry them and take them to distant shores. Soon they would plump out, like Royal, with the first of many babies. Only Sophia, the invalid, would remain here. Her health had deteriorated yet again. At first she had been plagued with fits, then she struggled to swallow food. Now there were red hot cramps in her stomach. It felt like she would never be well again.

  Pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane, Sophia glanced into the garden. Outside the shadowy castle rose, tall and magnificent above her. Did she really want a prince to rescue her from this place? She knew the answer, even before she asked the question: no. She only wanted General Garth.

  Blushes stained her cheeks. It was shameful, absurd. He was not handsome, she knew that, and he was so old! His kindness, which she loved to dwell upon, probably stemmed from deference to her father, not regard for her. But logic was useless. He was the first man ever to notice her; the first man her heart had leapt to see. No reason could undo the magic of that.

  Sophia closed her eyes as stomach cramps gripped with their burning hands and wrung her flesh together. Both her pains and her love for Garth were growing roots, taking possession of her as she sat clutching the fabric of the curtain. She felt nothing but the agony of her stomach, saw nothing but his face.

  ‘Oh!’

  Mary’s fingers slid off the keyboard with a discordant twang. Sophia snapped her head up, startled, and saw Amelia drop to the fl
oor on one knee.

  ‘It hurts! Oh, God!’

  Sophia recognised the expression of bitter pain on her sister’s face. ‘Your leg again?’

  Amelia nodded, wordlessly, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Show me,’ said Mary.

  ‘I’d better fetch someone.’ Sophia stood up, but she could not move fast with her painful stomach.

  ‘No, ring the bell. You’re not well yourself.’ Mary prised Amelia’s fingers away from her leg and lifted her figured muslin skirt. ‘It’s so swollen! It looks like a cricket ball.’

  It was a vicious inflammation, angry and red. Sophia’s eyes expanded. Hurriedly, she limped to the bell and pulled on the lever.

  ‘It’s become much worse.’ Mary shook her head as Amelia whimpered and leant on her shoulder. ‘I can’t imagine what it is.’

  Sophia met her anxious eyes and knew they were both thinking of the same thing, the thing their mother feared more than death: a taint in the family blood. Sophia shrank within the case of her body, which suddenly felt unreliable and foreign. She could sense it: a darkness stirring within her. But now it had come for Amelia too.

  Frogmore, Windsor

  The winter months faded away into a bright spring. Charlotte took out her book of pressed flowers and ran her fingers over the dried petals. Soon she would have live blooms to look upon, not just mummified stems. If only she could preserve other things with her fragile flowers. She would have bottled her optimism before it was pressed out of her like the juice from these leaves.

  New signs appeared in the King daily; turnpike tickets on the road to madness. There was nothing Charlotte could do. Events had spiralled, from George’s broken marriage to Amelia’s sudden illness, until she could no longer see her way to the surface. No clawing or frantic activity would turn the tide back now. She was almost sick of trying. All she saw in the future was war and revolution. The Swiss had caught the fever and were convulsing with it. So far, the British had proven themselves loyal to the crown, but would it last? Not with a deranged monarch and a debauched heir to the throne.