‘Her waters.’ Miss Gouldsworthy’s words came out strangled. ‘She’s having the baby.’
No. Not here. Not now. Pain splintered across Sophia’s stomach; she gasped but didn’t cry out.
‘What do we do? Do we stop the carriage?’ Amelia squealed.
‘I don’t know!’ Miss Gouldsworthy peered out the window. ‘I don’t think we’re far now.’
‘We can’t help her in the carriage while it’s moving!’
‘But wouldn’t it be better to give birth in a house than by a roadside?’
Keep going. If Sophia could speak, she would insist upon it.
She concentrated on the rhythm of her breath; if she knew how to deal with anything, it was crippling pain. The beat of the carriage helped her to time gasps of air; she could predict the next wave of torture when she counted the click of the horses’ hooves.
‘It’s all right, Sophy.’ Amelia gripped her sweating hand.
She was no comfort. Where was Garth? Why wasn’t he here, mopping her brow and speaking words of reassurance? Sophia was suddenly enraged against him. It was all his fault.
The horses stepped up into a canter. The ladies slid along the slick, bouncing seats, the moon racing beside them in the night sky. Time passed and the pains came closer together. All at once, the wheels screeched and Sophia flew forward. Amelia and Miss Gouldsworthy caught her with a sharp jolt just before she hit the floor.
‘We’re here, Sophy. Don’t worry, we’re here.’
The carriage door burst open. Lamps flickered above her and a dog barked somewhere nearby. Sophia quivered as General Gouldsworthy looped his arms around her and lifted her out into the night air. Her wet gown clung to her legs with icy claws.
Colourful shapes spun before her eyes as they swept through the house, up the stairs and into the bedchamber. Everything moved except the fixed funnel of fire between Sophia’s lower ribcage and the back of her knees. She grappled with the contractions, wearying under the constant demand to push, push, push. Heavy boulders rolled back and forth over her stomach, squeezing her breath out.
Hours passed.
At last, a cry awoke her from her stupor. ‘It’s coming, it’s coming!’ With one final sword thrust of agony, the weight pressing down on her lifted. She pushed again. Suddenly she was a fountain, a waterfall – new life flowed from her thick and fast.
‘It’s a boy!’
Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me.
Sophia pulled the sweaty pillow over her head, but the wail of her newborn son penetrated the feathers. She pressed the stuffing hard against her ears. Still, the dreaded sound was only muffled, not erased.
She should have known better. She didn’t need to see her son to fall in love. She heard his voice, the cry of life formed of her own flesh, and her heart returned his call.
Weymouth
Charlotte watched the face of her husband as he slept. He was peaceful now the warm hops were under his head; his face a perfect stone carving above the quilt.
His straight, alabaster nose flared as he breathed, setting the candles aflutter. Pungent vinegar and musk sickened the air, but they didn’t disturb him. Dawn crept in through the curtains and highlighted his innocent, blank eyelids, his pinched cheekbones.
Was it wrong to hope he would stay this still and serene forever? To pray that death would set him free, leaving her infuriating, frustrating but still hopelessly dear son with a kingdom at last?
She did not think it was wrong. She wanted to remember him as he was now, tranquil on a pure white pillow. But she knew she was losing him again; she heard it in his rasping breath, she saw it in the flickering muscles of his cheeks.
The previous week he had drunk enough water to drain the Thames and rolled up a hundred handkerchiefs. Even now, in his dreams, he clenched his teeth.
She could not go through it again. Many years ago, she lost the real substance of her beloved husband, but at least he had left a friend, a shadow of the man she once loved. What part of him would disappear this time? Which of her slender comforts must she make up her mind to lose? Had she not lost enough?
No one dared tell the King that Prussian troops had invaded his precious Electorate of Hanover – he was still reeling from Württemberg’s surrender – but he had to find out sometime.
George stirred in his sleep. His blistered, wigless head tossed on the pillow and he croaked out, ‘I am perfectly well.’
Tears blinded Charlotte’s eyes.
Her side of the bed stretched out, empty and unruffled. She looked at it and felt the chill of a marital bed that had turned cold. There were nights in her youth when they couldn’t lie beside each other without succumbing to desire. Those years were gone, and maybe George would be gone soon too.
She had written to Dr Willis, begging him and his sons to meet them when they returned to Kew. Once there, they would confine the King to the White House, while Charlotte and her daughters stayed in the Dutch House. He would think of it as a betrayal; Charlotte didn’t doubt that. But the George she married would understand why she had to do it. If she spent another night watching him pray until the sweat poured down his face, or listening to him get in and out of bed to close the shutters every hour, she would die of grief.
Charlotte reached out and stroked his damp hair. The motion soothed him and his features relaxed. There he was again, her George. She would stay, watching him and loving him, until the very last moment, this wonderful mirage of the George she once knew. And she would keep hoping, so ardently, for his sake, that he never woke up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Dutch House, Kew
Winter 1801
Sophia and her sisters clustered round a weak fire in the Queen’s boudoir. Nobody spoke and nobody moved. It was like being locked in an ice house: the blue-green walls, the dim light, the bitter cold and the frigid expression of the Queen. Her large mouth dominated her face, collapsed into a frown. No doubt she was thinking of the poor King, locked up with the Willises in the White House. The doctors had to take him by force, in the end. They had to chase and corner him like a dog, and drag him to captivity.
But Sophia’s mind didn’t stalk up and down the quiet corridors of the White House with him. It was beached upon the Weymouth sands, searching for her boy as the tide rolled in and out. They had taken her baby away. He would stay with a good family of tailors called the Sharlands and spend his life living a lie on the coast. She ought to be glad. She had done her duty, the boy was safe and yet . . . She was empty. Beyond empty. Stripped out, scoured clean. The fire spat and scattered sparks. Sophia stared hard into the dying flames, wanting to burn her eyes out. Right now, it was miserable to exist.
‘It all started when Pitt resigned.’ Elizabeth observed. The sound of her voice made them jump. ‘The newspapers say–’
The Queen rounded on her. ‘We do not read the newspapers, Elizabeth. We do not pay attention to their drivel.’
Elizabeth bowed her head. ‘I wish he hadn’t resigned as Prime Minister. That’s all.’
‘Pitt had to resign,’ Sophia mumbled. ‘It was a matter of principle. Over the Catholics.’
The Queen turned baleful eyes upon her. She was terrifying and ghostly, with her white hair gathered up on her head, but Sophia didn’t shrink back. No mere scolding could hurt her now. She had felt pain beyond pain.
‘He’s a fool to have those principles,’ the Queen snapped. ‘He has no idea what he is talking about. Do you not know what happened the last time we tried to give the Catholics a concession?’
‘Yes.’
The Queen carried on regardless, seething with anger. ‘The people stormed the city! Set fire to churches, carriages and prisons! What do you think they will do if we grant complete emancipation?’
Sophia shrugged. She did not care what happened to her.
‘They’ll throw your father off the throne, that’s what. You know they would. They have tried to kill him already. If we do not keep the Catholics in their place
, you may as well hand the crown to the House of Savoy on a plate.’
It was true, of course. The King’s Protestant religion was the only thing that put his claim to the throne above scores of pretenders. But what did it matter now?
Sophia threw up her hands in defeat. She couldn’t stand this cold prison of a room for a moment longer. She surged up and strode out the door without looking back. There would be hell to pay for her desertion later, but later was a very long time away in this toy palace, where the minutes ticked by like years.
She stomped through the drawing room and down the passageway. It felt good to move.
If her baby was there, she would have something to wake up for every morning. But the moment they took the child from the room where Sophia gave birth to him, a great cavity opened up inside her soul.
Now that he was out of her belly, in the world, she was no longer afraid of him. She just wanted to hold him. Her feet hammered down the staircase, punishing the maroon carpet. She turned on the landing, took the last flight at a run and bumped headlong into General Garth.
‘Sophy!’
‘Oh, Thomas!’
She went to fling herself into his arms, but something in his manner made her pause. His face was grave; he did not look pleased to see her.
‘Is it mine?’
‘What?’ She was so flustered that she didn’t catch the meaning of his words.
‘The baby. You never did reply to that part of my letter. I told you I had a plan. So swear to me – is it mine?’
Sophia turned cold. ‘What a question!’
‘Still, you have not answered it.’ There was no apology in his face.
No; this was all wrong. Everything was meant to be right, now Garth was here again. But Sophia didn’t know this man standing in front of her – he wasn’t the kind, smiling lover to whom she had promised herself.
‘Of course it’s yours!’ she hissed. ‘Who else’s would it be?’
He shook his head. His brow wrinkled. ‘I have heard rumours. And I was always so careful . . .’
‘Not careful enough, clearly.’
He looked away. Sophia could not believe it. Why did he not put an arm around her shoulders or speak a word of comfort? Who had been whispering to him, poisoning him against her?
‘I must deliver this bulletin to the Queen. It is from Dr Willis.’
She put one hand on the wall and one on the banister, blocking his path. ‘Have the Sharlands written? How is our son?’
‘He is well, I hear. I will call on him soon.’
‘You can’t!’ Sophia cried. ‘He must get on with his life. People will not believe he is the child of a tailor if we visit all the time!’
‘Anyone would think you were ashamed of him.’
Furious, Sophia flushed up to the roots of her hair. ‘No. No, it is not fair to our son. He must have his life . . . And the King! What if the King were to hear of us visiting?’
Garth shrugged. For the first time Sophia saw pain in his face. ‘I don’t know. I’ll write to you about it. I have to see the Queen.’
A murmur of voices in the hallway: servants returning from the gardens. They jumped apart from each other.
‘Thomas . . .’
‘I will write,’ he said again, and disappeared up the stairs.
Sophia felt as if someone had ripped a layer from her skin, leaving her burning and raw. The servants could not see her like this.
She dove down the corridor, through the anteroom and into the wood-panelled library. She shut all the doors, turned the keys in the locks and sank to her knees. Just like that, she had lost everything. No son, no father and no husband. Silently, she wept. Even now, in her great distress she had to hide herself, stifle all signs that she existed and felt. She was so desperate for someone to hold her that she wrapped her arms around her chest. Then she recoiled and looked down in astonishment. A thick, creamy liquid pushed its way through her stays and onto the patterned muslin of her dress. She dabbed at the substance but it welled up again, irrepressible. Then Sophia realised she was lactating – producing milk for the baby who could not drink it. Who would never drink it.
She stretched out flat on the floor, pushing her face close to the dusty boards. Under the gaze of towering bookshelves, she wrenched out a silent scream.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Kew Green
1802
The people were jubilant. Despite the chill, they waved ribbons, raced boats along the river and danced reels. Several children capered across the path, narrowly avoiding the hooves of Charlotte’s black horses. A hog roasted on the green, spreading the scent of meat and woodsmoke.
How could the subjects cavort and celebrate like this while their King lay ill? It was indecent. She resented being dressed up and put out in the open carriage to wave at their happiness.
Nearly a decade of bloodshed in Europe had come to an end through the Treaty of Amiens. But for Charlotte, little had changed. She had nothing to smile about, save Royal’s escape from Erlangen. Even then, it was a hollow victory. Württemberg had surrendered long before the peace.
The foolish new Prime Minister, Addington, had cut down army lists and taxes as if he would never need them again. He was dangerously optimistic. If the King were well, perhaps he could impose some restraint. But as things stood . . .
The flags flew at full mast as she descended from the carriage. Her gown of royal purple swept down the steps. Large diamonds glistened in her hair and pearls hung from her neck. In the centre of her bodice nestled a pure white rose. She looked every inch an elegant Queen, as the people wanted. She bared her teeth in a false smile and curtseyed. She was about to retire from the painful spectacle when one of her pages dashed up to her.
‘Your Majesty. The Princess of Wales is here.’
Charlotte gritted her teeth. ‘Tell her to go away. You know the King becomes impassioned by the sight of her.’ She ran her eyes over the windows, half-expecting to see the King pressed up against one of them, banging on the glass and demanding to speak with his niece.
‘I did, Your Majesty. But she was quite insistent. She gave me this . . .’
He presented a sealed note. Charlotte removed one glove and ripped it open.
No doubt Caroline would be play-acting again, appealing to Charlotte’s sense of pity. She would be keen to take advantage of the strange thoughts that galloped through the King’s head on bad days, such as building a new wing on her house in Blackheath and letting her keep little Charlotte under her sole care.
Charlotte scanned the scrap of paper. Only two lines met her eyes – in Caroline’s blotched writing and terrible English.
I have heard rumour the King must not. I come warn you.
She screwed the paper up in a fist and held it tight against her lips. A lie, surely. But how could she be certain?
‘Let the princess into my chambers,’ she said, walking toward the door. ‘She will not be staying to take refreshment.’
Between Lorch and Ludwigsburg
Cold blue skies formed a bright arc above Royal and her travelling party. Birds wheeled overhead as the sun kissed her face – a wonderful sensation she had not felt for a long, long time.
Although Royal and the children had surrendered to the French, they had been forced to stay in their retreat for safety. It was only with this new, international peace that they dared return home. The land had slumbered in the months of Royal’s absence. Now the trees shot hopeful buds and the crocuses were up, tasting freedom after exile in the cold, dark earth. Trinette and Paul blinked in the sunlight, their skin paler than the early daffodil buds. Behind them, the kangaroos beat out a steady thump with their feet, a wary-eyed baby hanging from the female’s pouch.
Royal insisted on walking over the uneven, muddy roads. A carriage was torture to her after being cooped up at Erlangen, but the children stumbled like new-born foals unused to their legs.
‘Mama,’ Trinette called.
‘Yes, love.’
‘We will not have to go away again, will we?’
Royal looked past her stepdaughter’s dark curls, which now framed the blooming features of a young woman.
‘I don’t know. I hope not.’ But Royal knew the Treaties of Amiens and Lunéville were hardly secure – Britain had lost too much land to abide content. They would never give up Malta as Napoleon desired and even if they did, he was not a man to be trusted.
Trinette halted, screening her eyes with her hand. ‘Look! Over there!’
Royal followed her stepdaughter’s gaze across the horizon. Shapes swarmed in the distance: tiny carriages and twig-like soldiers. In front of them, two figures tripped over the churned road: Wilhelm and Fritz.
Trinette gathered up her muddy skirt and ran, Paul galloping after her. Royal laughed at their shrieks of glee and picked her way over the mud. It had been so long. Nerves slithered in her stomach at the thought of meeting her husband – she was as shy as a virgin, as giddy as a girl. Would he be proud of her efforts? Would he return to the genial, flabby Fritz of old?
Self-conscious, Royal looked down at her gown and saw dirt circling the hem. She remained fat from her stillborn child; the pregnancy weight never left her, just as the weight of grief would never leave her. But, back in Fritz’s bed, perhaps she would conceive another child, a child of her freedom, born in peace time. The dizzying thought made her stumble.
As she neared her family, Royal realised it wasn’t just Fritz’s entourage that filled the road – the people of Württemberg lined the track and cheered at her return. Wind whipped their shouts up to the banners rippling above their heads.
Fritz lifted his lips in a weary smile. He looked older than Royal remembered, and tired. Without saying a word, he took her in his arms. The people whooped, filling Royal with a wonderful sense of belonging. She was home, nestled in Fritz’s soft arms, loved by her people.
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