Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  She sighed and looked out of the window. Sophia, Ernest and George strolled up and down the gardens, taking advantage of the mild air. All at once they stopped beneath the budding trees, caught by something George said. Sophia bit her lip and furrowed her brow. Ernest was laconic as always, the rim of his hat practically over his eyes, but George made great gestures with his arms as he spoke.

  Charlotte felt nauseous.

  ‘You there,’ she gestured to a footman. ‘Fetch the Princes George and Ernest in here.’

  The man bowed and walked outside. Charlotte watched his progress through the smeary glass. Why did her heart thunder? They could not have received alarming news about Amelia – that would have come to Charlotte first. Unless it went to the King. And if the King was alone, fretting about his darling daughter . . .

  She shut the volume of flowers and hugged its weight to her chest.

  Her sons trooped into the room and bowed before her. Petals spotted their whiskers and dishevelled hair, now cropped to match the fashion. Charlotte waved the servants away.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘What are you speaking of?’

  ‘Rebellion,’ Ernest returned blithely.

  The word sent prickles down her spine. She stole a glance at her eldest son, George, and saw his cheeks flushed with worry.

  ‘Not Amelia?’

  ‘No,’ George confirmed. ‘Amelia is, I trust, recovering as I left her. But the Channel Fleet are on the verge of mutiny at Portsmouth.’

  Stress squeezed against her temples, hurting her head. The King would be beside himself.

  ‘Mutiny in wartime? Have they no sense?’

  ‘They have no pay and no food. Hopefully the Admiralty will sort it out before the French can take advantage. But they don’t have much time. Ireland is in revolt.’

  Charlotte’s hands fluttered nervously on the cover of her book. She couldn’t think; she could only feel pain and flashing panic. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘They want Irish taxes to go to Ireland. They want to be free of English rule.’

  Charlotte snarled. ‘Do they? Well, let them go. I daresay they’ll come crying back.’

  ‘I think not; the French have landed at Kilcummin. They’re marching and gathering recruits as they go.’

  She barked an incredulous laugh, masking her terror. The King would run distracted. No one would rally behind George. They may as well raise the French colours now.

  ‘So! They won’t have the English but they welcome the French, with their beheadings and bloodbaths!’

  George exhaled heavily. ‘This is beside the point. If the French take Ireland, they’re a stride away from invasion.’

  The remaining colour seeped from Charlotte’s skin. ‘Pitt will save us,’ she asserted.

  ‘Pitt says we’ll have to form a union – give the Irish franchise and trading rights.’

  Ernest scoffed. ‘The Catholics? Not likely! The old man will never break his vow to keep them out.’

  George turned about desperately. ‘But Pitt will resign if he doesn’t.’

  Charlotte licked her parched lips. ‘How does the King take it, exactly?’

  They looked at one another.

  ‘Not well, I fear.’

  Stuttgart

  Royal bent her head in prayer, letting the veil slide over her face. She didn’t close her eyes, but she was communicating something desperately to her God.

  Her private Anglican chapel was painfully silent. The dark evening sucked the life from the stained-glass windows, leaving them as vapid shapes. The wooden choir stands lay deserted. In front of the altar, hundreds of candles sparkled over the silver cross and communion cup. She pretended to pray for peace and the souls of her inlaws, but God knew the truth. Fear, not grief, drew her to the cool sanctuary of the chapel.

  She ran a hand over her blooming stomach, remembering the doctor’s declaration that it was a big, strong child. All very well for him: he didn’t have to push it out. Childbirth. Travail. Confinement. The words swam around her, each with its own sinister whisper. How lightly she had dismissed them as a young virgin, eager for babies of her own. Only now, as the time drew near, she had to admit the possibility she had hidden like a dirty stain beneath a rug: she could die. These might be her last months on earth.

  How could she prepare for the great trial of her life, the most intense pain she would ever know? First labours could last days. As kind and attentive as Fritz was, he would not be allowed in the birthing chamber and he certainly wouldn’t be able to help her. If only Fritz’s mother was still alive. Royal had been relying on her, but once the poor duchess lost her life’s partner, she had withered away. Now Royal’s mentor was gone; she had to face the childbed without a woman’s advice.

  The Queen never considered marriage and childbirth fit topics to discuss with her daughter. Why did she not write, like a proper mother, with advice and soothing words? Her letters were banal, useless – only imparting the news that she would send a pair of kangaroos from England, so that they could make a menagerie at Ludwigsburg. Royal needed reassurance, not damned kangaroos!

  The pastor’s voice resonated through the church and rumbled softly in her ear. It was like a warm liquid, soothing, reaching deep inside. A memory rose unbidden: Royal sitting on her father’s lap, leaning her head against his chest and listening to him speak. If only she could feel his comfort now.

  Once, she would have confided all her fears to the King. But how could she burden the poor man with more worry? He was having enough trouble keeping his own country under control. His letters had a cheerful air but his uneven, shaky writing gave him away.

  Trinette sniffed, her face wet with tears. The cluster of distress inside Royal’s head separated and reached out tendrils toward her darling stepdaughter. It was selfish to brood over her own misfortunes while Trinette suffered beside her. The girl was without her real mother or the grandmother who substituted for her. Only Royal remained for Trinette to rely upon. Wasn’t now the time for Royal to show her worth? To do what she always vowed she would: be a better mother than the Queen? Easier said than done.

  Royal stared at the pew in front of her, tracing the whirls in the wood. Her marriage was in its infancy, and already two members of the family had faded away, blown out like the prayer candles flickering at the front of the church. It was her job to unite this sad, broken house of Württemberg. To reassure the public in a time of turmoil, to welcome the immigrants who came flooding out of Switzerland and other territories seized by the French. The weight of responsibility paralysed her.

  The pastor, solemn in his black and white robes, called Royal forward for Communion.

  Royal willed the strength of Christ into her body as she chewed the bread and swallowed the wine, but they were tasteless in her mouth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Drury Lane Theatre, London

  1798

  Flickering candles lit the stage, throwing shadows over the wood and the thick, velvet curtains. Everything had a blurred, dream-like quality. It was hot, almost suffocating, and the close air reeked with the scent of cheap tallow lights and perfume. Charlotte hung back at the entrance to the royal box, barring her daughters with an outstretched arm. The King wanted to go first.

  ‘No fear, Charlotte,’ he said, clenching her hand within his own. ‘I will not show them fear.’

  His sanity dangled by a thread. Through dumb luck they had kept Ireland under control and placated the navy, but the political situation was fragile – and so was the King.

  ‘Stand up straight!’ Charlotte hissed at Mary. ‘Your father wants us to look brave.’

  Dutifully, Mary pulled back her shoulders.

  The King strode to the front of the box and bowed. Charlotte watched his profile, wondering when he would snap at last. Applause rang out in the stalls. Charlotte glanced at her daughters, preparing them to step forward. But as she moved her foot, white light flashed and a crump came from below. Her breath caught. She knew the sound o
f a pistol.

  Hurried footsteps thundered behind her. Shouts rang out from the audience. Charlotte swayed and clung to the velvet curtain, her eyes fixed on the King. He took a single step back.

  ‘George!’

  To Charlotte’s astonishment, he pulled out a quizzing glass and peered around the circle. ‘Stay there. Just a squib backstage.’

  Another shot. The audience roared.

  ‘George!’ she flew forward, pressing her hands to his chest, feeling desperately for wounds.

  ‘Do be still,’ he said. He hadn’t even flinched. ‘You make such a fuss.’

  She didn’t have time to react. The door opened, pushing the princesses forward. Mr Sheridan, the theatre manager, ran into the box, his face twisted in panic, sweat gleaming on his forehead.

  ‘Your Majesty, Your Majesty! I have a carriage ready for you!’

  Charlotte could have kissed him. ‘Oh bless you, sir!’

  The King turned and lowered his glass. ‘You want us to leave?’

  Sheridan stuttered. He looked to Charlotte. ‘No – I do not want you to leave, Your Majesty. I fear for your safety. We’ve caught the man but he might have accomplices in the audience . . .’

  ‘No, no.’ The King dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘We’ll not stir. We’ll see the entertainment out.’

  Charlotte could not believe her ears. Her shoulders solidified with tension. Such foolhardiness, such flagrant disregard for the safety of his daughters! It was either bravery or madness – and she feared she knew which. She opened her mouth to protest but it was too late; George pushed back to the front of the box, showing himself unharmed to the cheering crowd.

  ‘Come, Charlotte! Don’t dawdle.’

  With trembling legs, Charlotte inched forward and acknowledged the public. The audience went wild, standing on their seats and waving handkerchiefs in the air.

  Charlotte couldn’t bear to watch their mania. It was like a large-scale reproduction of the King’s state of mind.

  ‘Sit down, girls, sit.’

  The princesses fell into their chairs, looking at their father in speechless admiration. Once again Charlotte felt the sting of their favouritism. He could risk their lives for his own pride, he could run mad, and they still worshipped him.

  Fifteen years before, she would have worshipped him too.

  Windsor

  Sophia cowered in Traveller’s stall, her arms stretched over his muscular neck, her face against his fur. She quivered uncontrollably from the horror of the assault. Why would anyone want to kill her father? What had he done to them?

  Instinct told her it would be the final prod, pushing his mind over the edge – the last card laid upon the house they had built with such painstaking care. She had only to stand back, catch her breath, and watch it topple to the ground.

  Traveller nickered softly, sympathetic to her tears.

  She knew she couldn’t go through it again: the King raving, the Queen poisoned by sorrow, spitting fury like an injured snake. But who would comfort her? Sophia’s family were all too absorbed with their own misery.

  She wished she could mount Traveller and ride, fast as a comet, jumping fences, pushing through hedges, on and on until fear and frustration were nothing but a memory.

  ‘Sophia?’

  General Garth.

  Traveller tossed his head. Sophia cringed closer to him, twining his mane between her fingers. She did not want Garth to see her like this. Her breath accelerated – she felt like a child, caught in a forbidden act.

  ‘Is that you, Sophia?’ Go away. She couldn’t plaster on a smile or put on a show for him. Another moment and he would see her weak soul, bare in its agony. Embarrassing, humiliating beyond belief. What better way to confirm herself as a fretful child in his eyes?

  A boot crunched on the straw. ‘Good God! What are you doing here, at this hour?’ The bolt slid across the door. With a gentle creak, Garth let himself into the stable and placed a hand on Sophia’s shoulder. Her flesh burnt under the heat of it. ‘Won’t you tell me?’

  No. There were no words for such things. She would not show him a wet shining face, speak in whooping breaths or risk her nose running down her chin. She had at least some dignity.

  ‘Sophy? I heard the King was attacked. He is not hurt?’

  Concern sweetened his voice. It gave her a swooping sensation – the same she got when the carriage went over a hill too fast. As he moved closer, the heat of his body warmed her, slowed the trembling of her limbs.

  ‘Do you want me to go away?’

  She wasn’t sure, now. She lifted an eye from Traveller’s neck.

  Garth was very close, only a breath away. Flecks of stubble sat above his top lip, drawing her gaze to his mouth. She wanted him. She wanted him so badly it was a physical pain that made fresh tears start to her eyes. Garth, in her arms, in her life. To cling to, to protect her.

  ‘Wouldn’t it help to tell me what’s wrong?’

  With a sob, she surrendered to the irresistible tug of her flesh toward his. His body caught her like a pillow, firm yet soft, while his warm, strong arms formed a protective shield around her.

  ‘Oh, poor dear!’

  Bliss. Despite her misery, Sophia tasted the crackle of desire in her mouth. A man, holding her. It had never happened before. She had almost given up hoping it ever would. Remember this. This moment was hers now – no one would take it away. The dizzying closeness, the connection of his body to hers. The way she had to breathe through her mouth to keep air flowing to her brain.

  ‘What is it, dear one?’

  One arm circled her waist, the other patted her back. Carefully, she rested her head upon his shoulder and let her tears settle upon the epaulettes of his scarlet jacket. They became dewy beads of beauty there, emblazoned by gold.

  ‘Come on, Sophy. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Everything.’ Her voice bubbled. She hid her face in his lapel, not wanting him to see her tear-stained and blotchy.

  Garth moved his hand from her back, sending tingles through her skin, until it settled on her nape. He stroked gently, a hypnotising caress. She melted into him.

  ‘It’s been a cruel time for you,’ he said softly, ‘what with Princess Amelia’s illness and the war. . . I wish there was something I could do.’

  For the first time, she raised her chin and gazed full into his face. There was no hiding it – the veil had to drop. Adoration burned in her eyes, too vivid and naked to be ignored. Garth looked at her for a beat. Suddenly, his urgent arms pulled her to him. His mouth came down, warm and sweet upon hers. Surely it was a dream. It felt like one: engulfing her, washing her mind until there was nothing – nothing before or after, except this moment. Her body fell limp with ecstasy.

  Time must have passed. She didn’t notice it. At last his lips withdrew, slowly. She couldn’t bear to let them go.

  Her voice came out airy, hardly there at all. ‘Don’t stop.’

  ‘But . . . The King.’

  The King. How could she forget? His image crashed rudely into the stable beside her, chilling the air with his disapproval. What was she thinking? Just a moment ago she had been crying over him and now . . . Now . . .

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. Her heart drummed, shouting over her scruples. It would not give in. She tightened her grip on the lapels of his jacket. ‘My father . . .’

  ‘I would never hurt your father,’ he whispered into her hair, nuzzling at her ear, ‘and I would never involve you in anything dishonourable.’

  Her spirit screamed against the injustice of it all. She itched to tear things, knock over tables and send objects clattering to the ground. How could it be possible to want something this badly and not get it? There must be some way for them to be together. Her feelings were too powerful to be ignored, too strong to be submerged.

  ‘But – then. . .’ she started desperately. ‘What shall we do?’

  He focused his soft, love-drenched gaze upon her. ‘I don’t know, Sophy. I don’t
know.’

  And he kissed her again.

  Stuttgart

  Royal lay in a dark, stuffy room for three weeks before the pains came. They began like menstruation: twinges that made her jump, as some diabolical puppeteer pulled strings inside her womb and made it dance.

  She put down her book and forced herself to say the words. ‘I think it is time.’ They resounded against the walls, ominous as the drum roll before the guillotine dropped. Her ladies leapt into action. They closed the curtains, barred the shutters and pinned blankets over the windows. Everything fell into gloom, making Royal apprehensive.

  This is it. The hot, damp room wobbled. Odd details stood out: a dusty windowsill, Roman numerals upon the clock. Before long even they vanished as the women drew heavy curtains around her bed and pinned them together.

  ‘Tell Monsieur de Reder,’ she panted. ‘He must – he must go to England and inform my father.’ Even as the pains tore through her belly she thought of the King, pale in suspense. It was her duty to lighten his anxiety by birthing a healthy, wailing baby.

  It felt like her whole life, everything she had worked and striven for, was a prelude to this moment. She braced herself and set her teeth. Only a matter of hours before her arms would be full and she would never feel empty again.

  As daylight deepened to dusk, the hard, steady pressure in the small of her back grew into a spiky ball. A powerful force clawed to get out, threatening to rip her open. She didn’t cry and she didn’t shriek. She would get through this.

  There were blessed moments when the hot pain subsided, like a wave drawing back from the beach, and she fell down on the crumpled bed to gasp for breath. At other times, distorted shapes came to her, embroidery on the curtains, the wooden bedstead, grim and ornate; attendants carrying silver bowls of water, her own arm glistening with sweat, clutching at the sheets.

  The accoucheur gave her advice but Royal had lost the ability to interpret her adopted tongue; words and sentences meant nothing. Only the language of pain filled her head and it was all consuming. ‘Oh, God! Oh, God!’ Suddenly the agony jumped up a level, forcing cries from her mouth.