Her exile had earned her this devotion. A year in Erlangen had melted and shaped her into a woman of Württemberg – the leader and the wife she wanted to be. She was Princess Royal no more.
Queen’s House, London
Charlotte had blushed for the conduct of her sons many times, but a daughter – to be ashamed of a daughter was much worse.
How had she failed to notice? It all made sense now; Sophia’s obsession with Garth and the stables, her sudden symptoms of dropsy. Then she had departed for Weymouth a day before the royal carriages and spent the holiday moping.
At the time, Charlotte thought Sophia grieved for the King’s state of mind, but now she knew better. If only Charlotte had paid more attention. To have the shock sprung on her – from blasted Caroline, of all people in England! It was humiliating. London gossips knew more about Charlotte’s daughter than she did.
She sat on her red-and-gilt throne and counted the seconds of Sophia’s absence. She pretended to listen to Monsieur De Luc on his lectern, reading a publication on the revolution in France.
In her mind, she pictured Sophia making her way through the pale grey passageways downstairs, Mercury’s basket balancing on one hip. With every imaginary step she took, Charlotte’s resentment mounted. Had she not raised her to be a model of virtue? Did she not teach her to control her own petty desires?
Now Sophia would be walking down the avenue of Corinthian columns, placing her foot on the first broad stone step. Charlotte visualised her in the echoing stairwell, the painted figures on the wall reaching out for her. She imagined a trail of dark, polluting sin leaking from beneath her skirt.
A guard edged the door open and Sophia crept in, her dimity dress whispering over the carpet. She set down the dog’s basket and Mercury trotted straight over, turning round a few times before settling with his head over one paw.
Monsieur De Luc paused, leaving a space for Charlotte to grant Sophia permission to sit down. They all looked to her expectantly, but she said nothing. If Sophia could get herself pregnant, she could stand up. Monsieur De Luc was forced to carry on with his reading.
Who would believe the thin, sylph-like Sophia was wanton? Not just wanton – breathtakingly selfish. The King was recuperating, but if he found out his fifth daughter was a harlot, the shock of it would kill him. Charlotte would have to hush it up. Give Sophia a chance to redeem herself and adopt the right course of behaviour. It was more than she deserved. At least Garth had the decency to pay for his bastard’s keep. If Charlotte sent money to Weymouth herself, it would lend credence to the rumours.
From what Caroline said, Charlotte gathered there was wild speculation about the baby’s parentage. Some wicked tongues even suggested the King had attacked Sophia in one of his mad fits. Charlotte shuddered. To think of the King’s good name, tarnished like that because Sophia couldn’t keep her skirts down!
Sophia sagged against the wainscot, pain carved in her face. Charlotte shot her a glare and she snapped to attention again.
It was a meagre revenge for the hurt Sophia had put her through, but it pleased Charlotte nonetheless.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ludwigsburg
Summer 1802
Royal dashed out into the gardens, breathless. She passed the statues, skipped down the steps, ran around the parterre and made straight for the canal, where Fritz walked with the English ambassador Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt.
It was cool and tranquil by the water. Insects skipped across the surface, darting in and out of orange rays cast by the setting sun. Royal slowed her step and fell into pace beside the men. She waited for them to finish their conversation, bursting with impatience.
‘I think the duchess would like a word,’ said Sir Thomas, peering around Fritz’s stomach. He looked tiny at the best of times, but next to hefty Fritz, the Englishman was absolutely comical.
Fritz attempted a smile, but it was strained. ‘Sir Thomas has been explaining our income, mein Schatzi. The interest on your settlement is skewed by the exchange rate. Out of each five thousand, we never receive more than one.’
Royal schooled her radiant face into a serious expression. ‘That’s terrible. But won’t the currency recover in peacetime?’
‘We can only hope.’ He looked down to pick up her arm and saw the piece of paper clamped in her hand. ‘What have you there?’
A bird called from across the water. Royal used the pause to still her heart and moderate her emotion.
‘A letter from my brother George. He wants me to come and stay with him in England. While there is peace and my father is well . . .’
Fritz snatched the paper from her fingers. ‘Let me see that.’
The breeze sent the trees shivering. Royal waited, wringing her empty hands together until she made red marks on her palms. Please, please. She wanted this so badly, it made her sick and dizzy with apprehension. Surely there could be no question. He must let her go.
The minutes passed, marked only by the splash of ducks in the canal. Why did he take so long to read it? Royal did not dare look into his face; she couldn’t bear to see a denial written there.
Finally, he moistened his lips with his tongue. ‘It does not mention me. Or the children.’
She faltered. ‘No. I – I imagine he thought you would be too busy. But if I write and say–’
‘In fact,’ Fritz interrupted, ‘it ignores me completely. Why would he address such a request to you and not your husband? The husband ought to direct the wife. I ought to have been consulted.’
Pink patches appeared under his ears. Royal sensed the anger boiling inside him and took a step back.
‘If he had written to me, I would have been agreeable to the idea. But I see how it is. I am set at naught by your Englishmen. I know what they say of me in your blasted gazettes. Well, I assure you, I can feel my dignity as well as an English sovereign.’
Sir Thomas, with a delicate ambassadorial flourish, ventured to interject. ‘Your Grace, I deeply regret the mistake. I am sure it is no slight. The duchess’s family only love her too sincerely to think of etiquette, when their heads are dizzy with the pleasurable notion of seeing her once more.’
Fritz turned on him, a quivering hulk of indignation. ‘They mean to take my wife – my wife! – out of the country without a by-your-leave! And you say they do not aim to wound my authority? I know their game. The minute she lands they will pour poison into her ears about me, blame me for surrendering to the French. Well, what have the English done for us? Nothing! They sit there and they judge and they do not lift a finger to save their own daughter’s family! They only remember her when it is convenient to do so!’
How dare he? Royal opened her mouth to protest, but anger, disappointment and fear formed a wedge at the back of her throat. She choked on her words, throttled by emotion. Would he really not let her go? Her father – would she never see him again? Giddy, she crouched on the grass and buried her fingers in the peaty earth. Fritz looked down at her. Surely he would reconsider when he saw her misery? Yes – the hot colour drained from his face and he stepped away from Sir Thomas.
‘You see how it is, sir,’ he said coolly. ‘Observe my wife.’ He gestured to Royal, on her knees and struggling for breath. ‘She is far too ill to travel. Could I, as a loving husband, send her to England in this state?’
What? This could not be happening, Royal couldn’t let it happen, but she had no words to put it right.
Fritz yanked her to her feet and wiped the tears from her face. She was utterly dumbfounded. ‘There, now. No need to cry. We cannot have a baby with the Channel between us.’
Royal winced as the trap clicked. He had caught her. He knew, as well as she did, that it was the only thing she would ever put before her father: a baby. A child of her own. There was even a veiled threat that he would not come to her bed, wouldn’t give her another chance to conceive, if she disobeyed.
‘I am too ill,’ she repeated, tasting the treachery on her tongue. ‘I am too ill to see
my family.’ She buried her head in her hands and sobbed with raw grief. She had pictured herself there, beside her father, embracing her sisters. In her joy at the King’s recovery, she had forgotten how this other man in her life needed to be managed, coaxed, tiptoed round on egg shells. She would never forget again.
Fritz placed a protective arm over her shoulders. ‘Never mind, Liebling. I will look after you.’
Weymouth
Sophia sat in a window seat, watching the early morning riders clatter home across the cobbled streets. She peered through her spectacles, hoping what she saw would prove her suspicions wrong. But sure enough, Charles Fitzroy hung back to ride at Amelia’s side.
Amelia glanced at him under her eyelashes, her cheeks pink. Sophia swallowed, recognising the signs all too well. It was just as she feared; her little sister was in love.
Fitzroy was an equerry, like Garth, but he was no short, ageing man with a deforming birthmark. He was tall and handsome with a chiselled face, dark eyebrows and gently curling hair. Just the kind to steal Amelia’s heart.
Sophia stood, ran to the door and jammed a bonnet on her head. This had to stop. Heaven only knew what she would say, but she had to say something. She could not watch her sweet baby sister, so adorably old-fashioned with a lace ruff at her neck, burn with passion and despair.
The air was balmy and scented with salt. Sophia charged into a haze of golden sunshine, her eyes on the lovers. She could almost taste their desire. Fitzroy swept his elegant body out of his saddle and helped the bashful Amelia dismount.
Suddenly, something like a wall appeared and stopped Sophia short. Squinting up through her spectacles, she realised it was Ernest, jerking his horse to a halt. A lick of foam wetted the animal’s neck, a sure sign of heavy riding. Her stomach dropped.
‘Good God! What’s happened?’ she cried.
Ernest threw down the reins and swung out of the saddle in one fluid movement. There were creases between his eyebrows and patches of sweat under the arms of his coat.
‘Ernest?’
Roughly, he seized Sophia by the wrist and dragged her away from the riders and servants. When they were out of earshot, he wheeled her round.
‘Who’ve you been talking to?’
The question was so strange that she gasped at him. ‘What?’
‘Sophia. What have you been saying?’
Sophia racked her brain for one incriminating sentence that had passed her lips. She shook her head, dumbstruck.
‘Well you must have said something. All of London knows you’ve had a baby.’
Everything moved. Sophia no longer stood on the grass but on a boat, tossing about on the waves. How did Ernest know? She hadn’t told him. ‘What do you mean?’
His scarred eye glared at her beneath its hooded lid, unimpressed. ‘All those times I lied for you. You said you were seeing Caroline. Think how foolish I felt when I heard the truth.’
There was no denying it, then.
‘How? How did anyone find out?’
‘I thought you’d know. The rumour’s spread like gangrene,’ he growled through clenched teeth.
Waves rushed in against the shore and seagulls called. Sophia put her head in her hands. Her fears streamlined, focusing to a single point. ‘The King?’
‘He doesn’t know, yet. If we are lucky, no one will dare tell him.’
‘What if they do? His mind won’t stand it!’
Ernest shook his head. ‘It does not bear thinking about. No one would be so foolish.’
She shivered. ‘What about the Queen?’
‘She hasn’t said anything.’
‘But you think she knows?’
‘Yes.’
Of course she did; that was why she wouldn’t let Sophia sit in her presence.
The papers would print it, if she and Ernest failed to buy up the articles and caricatures in time. Everyone would shun her. Nobody would know or accept that she and Garth had made their marriage vows in private – the dark shroud of a fallen woman would cover her.
‘You have to help me,’ she gabbled. ‘Have you any money? The Queen will cast me out. The King will run mad.’
Ernest pushed a hand through his tousled, sandy hair. There was something else.
‘Ernest?’
He coloured. ‘Garth’s been making enquiries – I gather Garth is your man?’ He could not look at her. ‘Because they’re saying – those damned people are saying that I’m the father.’
Vomit pushed hard against the back of her throat. She swayed, but Ernest snatched her out of the swoon with one strong arm.
‘Who says? Who says it?’ She couldn’t imagine spite dark enough to prompt slander like that.
‘Lots of people. My political enemies.’
Ernest leant Sophia against a stone wall, where she tossed her head like one in a fever. A pulse beat loud in her temple, drowning out the crash of waves, the horses passing by and the excited chatter of onlookers.
No wonder Garth was so strange and suspicious. Someone must have whispered to him, convinced him their baby was nothing but a monster.
‘What will we do? What will we do?’ Her poor son. She had to stay away from him – now, more than ever. No one could know he was hers. Being dubbed a royal bastard would taint his life, but if people thought he was the product of incest . . .
Ernest’s voice came to her in disturbed patches of sound. ‘Deny it. All you can do is deny it. Refute every rumour. Insist there is no baby, there was never a baby.’
She could do so with a clear conscience. It would not be a lie. There was no baby in her life – and now there never would be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Queen’s House, London
1803
‘You must let me have a command now! Surely you see that?’
Charlotte ducked beneath the blast of George’s voice as he shouted at the King.
The King shook his head. ‘I will take away that toy regiment you do have if you carry on.’
George swiped his jewelled ceremonial sword through the air. He was practically spitting with rage. ‘You are too old! You’re too old and too ill to ride at the head of your troops. There are a hundred thousand men waiting to cross from Boulogne! This is not a game!’
He was right. Boulogne had become an impenetrable coast of iron and bronze. Rumour had it that Bonaparte was assembling a fleet to rival the Spanish Armada – strange bulbous ships, rafts, floating fortresses and hot air balloons. Every English village drilled its citizens, from the labourers in their smocks to the clerks who practised three hours a day before work. A tattoo of drums and fifes pounded along the coastline, erecting sentry towers and beacons as it went. The walls in Chatham were now thirteen feet thick, mounted with guns.
Royal would never be able to visit now. The small window of time for sailing the Channel in safety had slammed shut, barring Charlotte from her girl. And since blasted Fritz favoured the French these days, it was unlikely Royal would receive her family’s letters from England.
Charlotte exhaled, ruffling the fur of her dog, Phoebe. War had one advantage, at least: it kept the press busy. The King wouldn’t hear of Sophia’s misadventure while a bugle blared across the nation.
‘I am not too old to command. I should like to fight Boney single-handed. I’m sure I should. I should give him a good hiding. I’m sure of it.’ The King’s eyes glimmered with the determination of a child. His white, queued wig wobbled as he emphasised the foolish words.
George raised a bergamot-scented handkerchief to his forehead. ‘Listen to yourself! This is war – the Treaty of Amiens has failed! Buonaparte is a formidable commander and he has taken Hanover already. We’re next on his list! You need a younger man at the head of your troops. You need me.’
The King rose to his feet, vibrant with anger, and drew back his stooped shoulders. ‘I do not need you. Pah! I’ll ride into battle myself, like my grandfather before me. I’m not a yellow-belly like that fool of Württemberg – I won’t ro
ll over and give in. I’ll fight.’
Charlotte pulled Phoebe close and concentrated on a deep red jewel in her bracelet. Once again, she was stuck in the middle, torn apart like a piece of meat between two starving curs. Usually, she would take George’s part, but with the King in this excited state it was dangerous.
‘I’m not disputing your right to fight,’ George explained. ‘I want you to fight. I want to help you.’
‘You can review the volunteer corps with your brothers.’
‘Papa—’
‘And I’ll expect you at my side on the field of battle when the invaders land. That’s all. No command. You’re not king yet, you know.’
George sliced the King with resentful eyes. The poor boy never had free rein.
‘What about us?’ Charlotte asked.
A pause. They turned to look at her.
‘Hmmm?’
‘The ladies. What will we do, while you’re off on this battlefield?’
‘You will go to Worcester, dear. I’ve arranged it.’
Insufferable. Charlotte foresaw her future: crouching in hiding with no idea of what was going on – no idea whether her husband and sons were alive or whether she was still Queen. She looked back to her bracelet and the dark red of its jewel filled her eyes, filled her mind. So much rage and resentment she could never express. She tried to pour the poisonous feelings into the ruby with the intensity of her gaze.
‘Go on now, George, go,’ said the King. ‘Can you not see your mother is distressed? Be off with you.’ He made a shooing motion with his hands.
Glowering, George picked up his hat and gloves. Charlotte’s darling son was not the beautiful, florid boy he used to be; disappointment, frustration and downright foolish living had taken their toll.
‘Mama.’ He bent over to kiss Charlotte’s hand, reeking of pomade and eau du cologne.
Their eyes met.
He was always a clever boy. He knew, as well as she did, that they were doomed. He knew the King was off with his strange fancies again, at the worst possible time, and Britain would either have a legitimate, mad King or a false, French Emperor.
Queen of Bedlam Page 25