‘I have a present for you.’ His face was flushed, his birthmark barely visible.
‘What?’
‘Come and see.’ He led Sophia to a chair and sat her down.
She smiled up at him. ‘I don’t need anything, you know. I just want to be with you.’
He planted his lips upon her forehead and fumbled with his inside pocket. At last, he found what he was searching for and brought out a clenched fist.
Sophia laughed. ‘What is it?’ It looked like the prelude to a magic trick.
Slowly, he eased his arm down and uncurled his clenched fingers. In the palm of his hand sat a thin gold ring.
Her heart skipped a beat. The crumbling walls and wooden floor whirled around while the ring remained, glowing and steady. Was it really what she thought it was? Her mind galloped, searching for alternative meanings.
‘They will not let us marry,’ he said. His voice was gruff, caught by emotion. ‘The lawyers, Parliament, your father . . . But who are they to decide that?’
She held onto the chair. ‘Thomas . . .’
‘Stupid human laws are all that stop us. We are married to each other in our hearts, are we not?’
A smile seized Sophia’s face; she couldn’t stop it. ‘Yes.’
He took the ring and slid it onto her finger. It was a perfect fit.
‘When you wear this, you will know that I am married to you, that I have made those vows. What does the law matter if God knows we love each other?’
Sophia held her hand up to the light. The ring glimmered and sparkled, tempting her. This was all she had ever wanted. All that Caroline told her she could never have.
But the memory of the King at Royal’s wedding tugged on her skirts like an impatient child. The way his limbs had trembled. The pale, cold sweat on his face as he gave his daughter away. ‘If Papa found out . . .’
Garth stroked back her hair. ‘He won’t. I promise.’
Easy for him to say. It wasn’t his father standing on the precipice of madness, just waiting for a push. She tried to picture what would happen if the King found out his daughter had married an equerry, but even her mind recoiled, refusing to form the image. She considered for a moment, twisting the ring round and around her finger, where it felt so right.
It wasn’t fair. This was her chance – her only chance – for love and happiness. She could not turn it down. It would break Garth’s heart, not to mention her own.
But accepting would break her father’s.
‘Perhaps . . .’ she stumbled. ‘Perhaps we should wait? One day, my brother George will be King.’
‘Would he acknowledge our marriage?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’ Of course he would. George was always good to her, despite her friendship with Caroline. It might be a long time to wait for George’s reign, and the Queen would still hate her, but it was something to hope for.
‘Well then. Let that happen when it happens. But Sophia, I can tell you now . . . I take you as my wife.’
She nuzzled her head under his chin. Her heart glowed. ‘You are my husband,’ she confessed. ‘I already think of you as my husband.’
‘Then we are married. God has heard us.’
Garth cupped her face and raised her lips to his. The kiss was sweeter, more meaningful than any they had shared before. He was right. This was a marriage. In the eyes of God, they were one, and not even her father could claim authority over Him.
Gently, Garth drew Sophia from the chair and pulled her down with him onto the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ludwigsburg
1800
The journey home from Teinach opened Royal’s eyes to a reality that had been there for a long time. Through the dull fog of grief, she had failed to notice the tenacious fingers of war, creeping across her new country. But she saw them now. She saw them all in the stark light of day: fields tilled with the tracks of cannon wheels, cows lying in bloody heaps, thick clods of flesh severed from their bones by enemy troops.
The children ran down the palace steps and pulled her out of the carriage, into their embrace. She still called them children – they were fifteen, seventeen and nineteen now. The moment they put their arms around her and said they were glad she had come home, she knew she could not disappoint them. She couldn’t be like the Queen, wallowing in despair. Although her baby was dead, she was still a mother with people relying on her. She forced herself to go on for them.
The cogs of the palace turned, miming normality, but it was clear that a change was coming fast. The household held its breath, sensing the French troops circling them like a pack of wolves. Day and night, Fritz’s raised voice travelled through the veins of the palace, increasingly desperate in tone.
Post was scarce. A few intrepid letters trickled in from Amelia, but Royal could hardly bear to look at them. How insufferably petty her sister’s cares seemed now! No one in England was forced to dissolve Parliament because they suggested making peace with the French. Amelia wasn’t afraid to go outside the bounds of her palaces – and she did not open her eyes every day to the memory that her daughter was dead.
Royal folded away the letters and put them in her workbox, ready to read when she was in a better frame of mind. Heavy footsteps beat in the hallway. She looked up as Fritz burst into the room, looking more dead than alive.
She raised her chin, steeling herself for more bad news.
‘Tell your ladies to pack your things. You are going to Erlangen.’ His words reeked with the stench of defeat.
She shook her head so forcefully her earrings jangled. ‘No. You need me here to help you.’
He huffed. ‘Do you say no to your husband? You are going. And the children also.’
‘I cannot leave you alone!’
‘Wilhelm will stay with me. We will go to Vienna and make the Holy Roman Emperor listen.’
Royal hesitated, her lower lip jutting stubbornly. Packed away with the children. She had always meant to be a great leader, a beacon for her people in times of trouble. The old ambition sizzled inside her, refusing to be doused. In this mood she was prepared to risk all, give all, for the good of her country. She could serve her people, if Fritz would only let her. ‘I would rather stay with you.’
Fritz threw up his hands, angry now. ‘Your life was not spared in childbirth for you to die needlessly in a war! I tell you, you will go and look after Paul and Trinette. My sister evacuated from Russia weeks ago.’
Royal considered her husband, perspiring and raging before her. His large face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. Her stomach lurched with a blend of pity and disdain. Her father would not have run away, but Fritz had none of the King’s poise. His terror blinded him, making him seem angry. His clawing, nervous energy needed to go somewhere and he channelled it into fury. She had to tread gently. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll worry about you, that’s all.’
He sighed. ‘You will only cause me trouble if you stay. You forget you are a Princess of England – a valuable hostage.’
Royal felt her hopes slip through her fingers. How could she reason with him? He would make her go and she was duty bound to obey. She hung her head, trying to look penitent. ‘I will do as you say, of course. But I will miss you.’
He came up and embraced her. Royal rested her cheek against his chest. His shirt was damp with sweat. She willed him, willed him with all she was worth, to change his mind and let her stay. But he was determined. ‘You will be safe,’ he murmured. ‘I must have you safe. And you can take the kangaroos with you to amuse the children.’
Royal baulked at the idea of hiding in exile with kangaroos while her husband fought the French. What had she been reduced to?
She had set out to be a better mother and a better leader than the Queen. The very thought was laughable now.
Fritz released her and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘Oh, there is one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
A change came over him: he was suddenly hard and duke-like agai
n. ‘Send a letter to your father, if you can get one out.’ He turned away, tossing the words over his shoulder. ‘Tell him of the danger you are in. He has been no friend to us, refusing to send troops or funds. Perhaps he will take this seriously.’ He swept out of the room with his bevy of attendants, not giving her a second look.
Royal felt the sting – its poison dripped down to mingle with the disappointment seething in her stomach. Did he really dare to criticise the King? She balled her hands into fists and waited in furious silence for the door to close. When she was alone, she spoke under her breath. ‘My father is twice the leader you will ever be.’
Some two hours later, Royal squeezed her way through an avenue of trunks and bandboxes. The preparations were well under-way and the vast corridors of Ludwigsburg seemed cramped, obscured with parcels and trunks. It helped to pour her frustrated feelings into the task of packing up. If she could not steer the country, she would at least plan the evacuation perfectly.
It was a complex mission. There were not enough servants to help with the workload, so she had to join in, folding up a linen package for Trinette while she walked up and down, inspecting the progress. She was already buttoned into her travelling dress, the hood of her cape up around her curls. It would be good to get in the carriage and start moving.
A door banged. The ladies dropped what they were packing and fell into curtseys as Fritz strode toward them.
‘The carriages are here,’ he barked. ‘Why are you not packed yet?’
Royal tied a final knot in the string of Trinette’s bundle. It hurt to have him so snappish. They were all stressed and afraid – he needn’t take it out on her.
‘These things take time, love.’
‘Time we do not have. Stop that! Stop it, all of you!’ he waved at the servants. ‘You will go as you are.’
So now she was not even allowed to direct the move! It was too much.
Royal trotted after him down the hallway, tossing her finished package to one of her ladies.
‘But Fritz, the children need . . .’
He cut her off. ‘You should have thought of that earlier. There is no time.’
‘But—’
‘I assume you have written to your father. Is that why you are tardy in packing?’
Anger flashed before her eyes, but she had no time to express it. She struggled to keep pace with his long steps, dodging attendants as she went. The hood flew off her head.
‘Why . . . I . . . no—’
‘No, that is not why you are late? Or no, you have not written?’
‘I haven’t written,’ Royal cried, stopping still. ‘I won’t! There is nothing Papa can do. It would only worry him to—’
Fast as lightening, Fritz turned and slapped her. Hot pain rang around her ear and up her cheek. The servants fell silent. ‘Your duty is to me, not your father!’ he roared. ‘You have failed me!’ He panted, glaring into her face, flecks of spittle on his lip. Then, in a lower, weary tone, ‘You have failed me, Charlotte.’
Everything was still. Royal’s right cheek burned from the sting of the blow and the heat of shame. Failed. It was one thing to upbraid herself for weakness, quite another to hear the accusation on Fritz’s lips. A failed wife. Struck and scolded before the whole household. Tears made her vision shimmer.
He moved toward her again and she tensed. But he only planted a quick, dry kiss on her untouched cheek. ‘You must go. Goodbye.’
Trinette and Paul thumped down the stairs with portmanteaux and boxes. Royal rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes and roused herself. ‘Well then. Are you ready? Say goodbye to your Papa.’
They left in a bustle, with a confusion of trunks. Royal did not have a moment to dwell upon what had happened. She completed the preparations and put the children into the carriage in a state of shock, feeling nothing, thinking nothing.
It was only when they drew away from the palace, waving to Fritz and Wilhelm, who stood outside, that she realised her eyes were on her husband’s powerful arm. An arm that was meant to protect, but had struck.
She raised a hand to her injured cheek.
Kew
How could it have happened? Sophia dashed along the path, her legs shaking. She never even dreamt it was possible.
Garth had been so sure. She had trusted him implicitly with her body – he seemed to know everything. He had a sheath of animal gut with a ribbon to secure it in place, he had a lemon rind to block the entrance to her womb – he even had a special method of making love to a rhythm. But he had been wrong.
Not only had she missed courses but there were strange motions in her belly, rippling across the skin like a breeze across a lake. She pulled her pelisse around her burgeoning stomach and felt a wave of panic as the fabric stretched. Had anyone noticed?
Thank God the current fashion favoured loose-fitting gowns with a high waist, which concealed the bump. If the Queen were to see . . . or even worse, if the King found out! The scandal, the betrayal of his favourite equerry, would surely kill him.
Babies had always seemed like sweet, innocent cherubs. But not this one. Its spectre followed her, a dark shadow gripping on the hem of her skirt with sticky little fingers. It was relentlessly ploughing toward her and there was no way to change its path. What could she do? She looked at the young women passing her: society misses, simpler beings who could perhaps disappear and drop a baby discreetly in the country. Princesses did not have that option. Sophia was in the public eye and the truth would out . . .
It was a death sentence for her and her family.
She stopped and leant on a tree. Its bark was rough against her aching back. How could she have been so foolish? Suddenly her marriage to Garth, which she had believed in without question for so long, seemed a weak and flimsy thing. The world would not accept lovers’ vows swapped without a vicar – and it certainly would not accept her child.
There was no help in sight on the green. Children chased hoops with sticks along the paths and boats raced down the river without a care in the world. Further off, cows grazed, humming gently into the spring air. Sophia felt like a stain in their simple presence – dirty and guilty.
Disconsolate, she watched a governess take her little charges down the river bank. They chattered in highpitched voices. The eldest boy threw bread to the ducks and they swarmed thick and fast around him, jostling one another out of the way.
Sophia longed for the days she had spent like these children – running around Kew as if it were a magical playground, seeing the exotic plants and the foreign animals, fighting with her brothers and sisters. What she would not give to be free of burdens once more, trotting behind Miss Gouldsworthy in the crocodile of royal children . . .
Miss Gouldsworthy. She stood up straight, galvanised by the idea. Surely her governess, of all people, would help her? She might be angry, having raised the princesses so carefully, but she would keep the secret. Sophia took a step and hesitated. Revealing the truth would lay her open to attack. She had to be sure. A sharp kick from the baby winded her. Such force! It must be big and strong already. She imagined it; a menacing, muscular baby, growing huge just to spite her. Dear God, she needed to take the chance and tell someone, or she would give birth alone in a ditch. It had to be Miss Gouldsworthy. There was no one else.
She picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could across the park.
Miss Gouldsworthy let her in at once. Sophia leaped out of the sunlight and shut the door fast behind her heels.
‘Are we alone?’
Her governess looked around, perplexed. ‘My brother is upstairs. Why, what is wrong?’
Sophia did not know how to start. Her courage buckled before Miss Gouldsworthy’s kind, familiar face. This wasn’t like the other times when she had run from Mama’s scolding or begged pardon for not learning her lesson. Sophia stared at Miss Gouldsworthy’s gentle eyebrows, slanted in concern, and thought what a blow of disappointment she was about to deal. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. �
��I need to talk to you.’
Miss Gouldsworthy put a hand upon Sophia’s shoulder and guided her toward a chair. ‘Won’t you have some tea?’
The very thought made Sophia queasy. ‘No. Thank you.’
They took their seats and looked at one another in silence.
Miss Gouldsworthy leant forwards – an invitation to confide – but Sophia could not start. She couldn’t articulate the words that bounced around her mind with cries of terror.
‘Sophy, you are scaring me. What is it?’
She stared at her hands, squeezing and nearly ripping the fabric covering her lap. ‘I think . . .’
‘You think . . . ?’
She had to do it. It was like leaping from the bathing machine at Weymouth; she just had to screw up her courage and plunge in. ‘I think I’m . . . with . . . child.’ Her squeezed lungs almost suffocated the last, fateful word.
Miss Gouldsworthy’s chair squeaked across the floorboards. ‘What?’
Sophia hid her face in her hands, but she could imagine the disappointment taking hold of Miss Gouldsworthy’s features. ‘With child.’ Now the terrible words were out of her mouth they expanded, filling the room with dark consequences. ‘It’s not as bad as you think,’ Sophia gabbled. ‘I am not a slut. I am married, but Papa doesn’t know. He cannot know.’
Miss Gouldsworthy laid a hand on her back. It trembled lightly on her spine. ‘Are you sure?’
Sophia wiped her nose. ‘I’ll show you.’
They didn’t look at one another as they drew the curtains and bolted the door. The tension was unbearable.
Part of Sophia hoped that Miss Gouldsworthy would look at her, laugh and tell her she was wrong. But even as she felt her own pulse hammer in her neck, she was vaguely aware of another heart, pounding in the pit of her stomach. Sophia untied the ribbons of her pelisse. A gentle hump pushed out the muslin of her day gown, barely noticeable between the loose folds of fabric.
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