Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Ludwigsburg

  1804

  The evening was overcast with dark clouds marbling the moon. Royal knelt between the window and her bed, deep in prayer.

  She possessed all she had longed for as a girl – a family of her own and a palace at her command – but she was not the fulfilled, confident woman she had envisaged; she was in pieces. What must they think of her back home? It was bad enough being parted from her relations by distance, but to lose their good opinion too was intolerable.

  Württemberg was not neutral in this war; they had made a pact with the devil. The French had crossed the Rhine. The duchy could only fight on to certain death or surrender and become a member of their Confederation.

  Fritz had made the decision her father never would: he had given up. The King’s greatest foe, Napoleon, was on his way. Royal would have to meet him, offering friendship and politeness, in just two days. Driving her fingernails into the back of her clasped hands, she begged God for the courage to perform her duty: to curtsey to the usurper of France.

  For her husband, for Württemberg, she had to make a good impression. Napoleon wasn’t simply a general now; he was an Emperor with Spain and Italy on his side. He could not be beaten.

  Royal squeezed her hands together and entreated Christ to intercede for her husband and her father. Hopeless, really. One’s victory would mean the other’s defeat. It was a cruel, cruel position. Would the King understand? Or would he view this surrender as a personal betrayal? Heaven knew Royal would sacrifice much for her dear Papa, but she could not put her family and her people at risk to protect his feelings. As a good sovereign, he must see that. She prayed that he would see that.

  She started as the door opened and shut. What could this be? She had ordered her ladies to leave her alone for prayer just a moment ago. She opened her eyes, a scold on her lips.

  A dark shape passed quickly beside her. Before she could turn, a rough hand gripped her hair and wrenched her to her feet. Needles of pain pricked her scalp as she twisted helplessly, her neck bent at an unnatural angle.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she shrieked, but something heavy collided with her teeth. She tasted blood. Her nose cracked and bright spots sprang up before her eyes. Pain reverberated through her skull until she dropped onto the bed, limp as a ragdoll.

  Royal opened her eyes to glare at her attacker. They flickered into focus, the double images sliding back into a single frame. A man towered over her, his face scrunched and red as tears poured down his cheeks.

  It was Fritz.

  For a moment she was so stunned that she fell back against the coverlet. Of all the people sworn to protect her, it was Fritz. She would rather have seen a masked assassin. She would rather have been stabbed through the heart.

  Hiding his face in both hands, he bellowed and slumped down beside her. ‘I am sorry,’ he gasped into the sheets. ‘I am sorry. I just . . . I cannot . . . I am so sorry.’

  For a while she remained still, breathing in and out, staring at the ceiling. The bed trembled beneath her husband’s sobs.

  What had he been reduced to? Had the war really crushed him into this pathetic beast? His presence turned her skin cold. Instinct told her to jam shoes on her feet and fly from the room. But there was no way out of the situation. She was tied to him, on the wrong side of a war, hundreds of miles from England. And what about the children? She could not run from the children. This violence, this weakness of Fritz’s was just another thing she would have to cope with.

  She tried to make way for it in her mind, winding it round and through her love for him without quite stifling it. Maybe it was a trait of all leaders, this double personality. She pictured her father, so genial and kind playing with the children one moment, then foaming at the mouth and groping Lady Pembroke the next. He had outbursts, he had hit pages. It did not make him a bad man. Royal had blamed her mother for collapsing under the swings of the King’s temper, yet here she was, doing the same thing.

  Blood trickled down her nose onto her lips. Its bitterness filled her mouth. After all she had been through, she was no better than her mother. She hadn’t learnt. And she was such a poor wife that her husband beat her. She shuddered as the idea surfaced: was it her fault? She had always been difficult, disobedient.

  Images and arguments flashed through her mind: the hunting lodge, his slap before she left for Erlangen, the scene by the canal. She had not been an easy, biddable wife. Her birth had shackled him to England long after it became necessary to side with France, and her refusal to write to the King had left Fritz without an ally. Shame burned through her, leaving a sick trail of guilt. There was another sin, far greater: her carelessness had killed their baby. No wonder he hit her.

  She put out the hand that bore her wedding ring and let it hover above Fritz’s head. His hair was tangled and clogged with powder. It did not look like the head of a monster, or a fiend. Despite everything, it was the same. It was just Fritz.

  She planted a kiss upon her palm and laid it flat against his skull. She would do better than the Queen. She would learn to forgive. She would be the real stability and power holding this duchy together. It would be her hardest lesson yet.

  Another stream of blood ran across her cheek and spotted the coverlet.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Fritz repeated.

  Kew

  Mist shrouded the morning, winding its tendrils around the plants. Sophia ambled along, holding Amelia’s hand and wished the swirling clouds would swallow her up. How could Garth believe it? How could anyone believe such a sick, vicious rumour?

  Losing a child was bad enough; she hadn’t expected it to drive a wedge between her and Garth too. Estranged, barely speaking or writing, it was as if they had never meant the world to one another. She felt it like an internal rupture. Something had burst and bled profusely, but she had nothing to staunch the flow. Sophia sighed, the smoke of her breath blending with the fog.

  Amelia turned concerned blue eyes on her. ‘Have you spoken to Garth yet?’ she whispered.

  Sophia shook her head. ‘I don’t think I could bear to. I hate him. I hate him for believing that about me and Ernest.’

  Amelia glanced over her shoulder. ‘Sophy, I am not sure he does believe it. I’ve heard something else. People say Garth is thinking of adopting a child – a poor child – and making him his heir.’

  Sophia squeezed Amelia’s gloved fingers. She focused hard on staying upright and walking straight. ‘My child?’

  ‘Who else’s?’

  He could not do that. The only reason Sophia let them take her boy away was to give him a fresh start, free from the slander surrounding his birth. Had it all been for nothing? All her self-denial, the wrenching age spent torn from her own flesh and blood? ‘He can’t,’ she insisted. ‘He can’t.’

  ‘He is the father. He can do whatever he wants.’

  Sophia shook her head fiercely. Her brain burned as she racked it for a solution that would protect both the boy and the King. ‘If I stay away from them both, there’s a chance that no one will guess I am his mother. Isn’t there?’

  Amelia shrugged. ‘Unless the papers discover your affair with Garth.’

  ‘They don’t want to discover that. Half of London thinks I gave birth to Ernest’s baby. They’re happy with that twisted story. If I don’t go and see Garth, maybe they won’t associate the boy with me. Perhaps they’ll believe he really is some pauper, adopted out of the goodness of Garth’s heart.’

  Amelia gave her a pitying look. ‘Perhaps.’

  Perhaps. A stake through her chest, a life spent in mourning – an awful lot to risk for a perhaps. But if there was a chance, even a chance, that Sophia’s pain could help her child, she would bear it. Of course she would – she was his mother.

  When Sophia thought of helping others, it suddenly occurred to her that she’d forgotten to question Amelia about Fitzroy. This business with the baby had blown it clean from her mind. Yet, perhaps Sophia didn’t ne
ed to caution her sister after today’s conversation. Amelia was intelligent; surely she would see the agony Sophia had endured and take a warning from it? But then again, love blinded the wisest minds . . .

  Sophia blinked as a dark streak hurtled toward her through the mist. A man ran, full pelt across the lawn, unable to cut a clear path through the fog. He stumbled, cried out, lurched forward and nearly collided into the back of Amelia.

  ‘Excuse me! Your Royal Highness!’ The messenger pulled himself up, panting.

  ‘What is it?’

  He tried to catch his breath. ‘The Queen has summoned you.’

  Sophia turned cold. The Queen knew about the baby – Ernest had been sure. She clenched Amelia’s hand until her knuckles turned white.

  ‘Only the Princess Amelia,’ the messenger explained.

  The girls exchanged a glance, Sophia’s fright seeping out of her features and flowing into Amelia’s.

  ‘Are you certain?’ Sophia asked.

  ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness.’

  Sophia released her sister and almost dropped to the ground with relief. ‘What could it be?’ she whispered.

  Amelia shrugged guiltily and followed the messenger across the dew-soaked lawn. Sophia watched her disappear, gradually, into the mist.

  The Dutch House, Kew

  The princesses’ old English teacher, Miss Gomm, scuttled into Charlotte’s quiet drawing-room. She slammed the door shut and froze for a moment, her hands pressed upon it. What now? ‘Miss Gomm?’

  The lady dropped to her knees in a pool of green silk. ‘Your Majesty, forgive me.’

  Charlotte peered down at her. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing; nothing to me, Your Majesty. Only – oh! I do not know what to do.’

  Charlotte was silent, unable to feign interest. Another disaster? What did it matter? Her life consisted of bouncing from one calamity to the next. There would only be something worse next week, even worse the week after that.

  ‘It is Princess Amelia,’ Miss Gomm gasped. ‘I have been remiss in my duty. I’ve been very, very remiss.’

  Low sunlight filtered through the scarlet curtains onto Charlotte’s face, but she felt no heat. Everything was dead to her.

  ‘I believe the princess has fallen in love with Charles Fitzroy,’ Miss Gomm confessed.

  Charlotte inspected her nails. ‘I observed to you last year, several times, that she fell behind to ride with him.’

  Miss Gomm nodded, her face a mask of contrition. ‘I should have listened. But it is far worse now. God forgive me, I let them spend time together, under my watch. I pitied them as young lovers. I was very wrong.’

  Charlotte sniffed. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

  The governess widened her eyes. ‘I thought you might speak to her, Your Majesty. She won’t listen to me, not now.’ Charlotte made a moue of distaste. She had polished over Sophia’s indiscretion without even mentioning the matter to her – the girl was clever enough to give up Garth herself, when she saw what their relationship would do to the King. Amelia would follow the same path.

  ‘Can we not just let the romance run its course? They’ll tire of each other soon enough. Just make sure there is no – physical contact.’

  Miss Gomm wrung her hands. ‘Oh, Your Majesty, she will be ruined! There are already such rumours! I am afraid the King will hear of it. I am afraid that she’ll elope with him.’

  An ember of anger burnt through Charlotte’s torpor. She was relieved; it proved there was something left inside her. ‘Would she really forget her duty so far?’

  Miss Gomm threw out her hands. ‘She is bewitched.’

  ‘Bring her to me.’

  ‘I have already sent a messenger, Your Majesty. The princess will be waiting in the next room.’

  While Miss Gomm ran to fetch Amelia, Charlotte waited, staring at the marble chimneypiece and feeling her anger mount. She cherished the life-giving power it carried as it flowed through her veins – veins that were otherwise dead.

  As Amelia bustled in through the door, her chin erect, Charlotte rose up, a Queen once more, forceful and terrible in her rage.

  She made no preamble. ‘So! What is this I hear about Charles Fitzroy?’

  Amelia drew herself up. ‘I love him, Mama.’

  Charlotte wanted to spit. Impossible, while Amelia was young and hot-blooded, to persuade her that love was not enough – that love could fade as easily as a handsome face. ‘And what about your father? Do you not love him?’

  Amelia’s lips parted. For an instant, Charlotte saw the winning little girl who brought the family such joy. ‘Of course I love Papa.’

  ‘Then you must know this will kill him when I speak of it. Or perhaps that is your plan? You would be free to marry then. George would give his consent.’

  Amelia flinched as if scalded. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘No, I would never wish harm on Papa.’

  ‘Well then, I expect to hear no more of this unpleasant business.’

  Amelia bristled, her sweet blue eyes turning sharp as daggers. ‘He is not an unpleasant business. He is the man I love.’

  Charlotte scoffed.

  ‘You don’t know what it is like,’ Amelia hurried on. ‘You were married to Papa straight from the schoolroom. You had no choice. You do not know what it is to wait and wait for love.’

  A low, unpleasant laugh escaped Charlotte’s clenched teeth. It amused her when Amelia spoke of boredom and neglect; she did not understand the meaning of the words. All her life, she had been petted and spoilt. She would not have coped with Charlotte’s childhood, marooned in the crumbling Schloss of a war-scourged duchy.

  Tears of frustration spilled over Amelia’s lashes. ‘Please, Mama, please. Have pity.’

  Perhaps Charlotte would have done, once. But now she only saw the disobedience and selfishness of her youngest daughter, and she used it to fuel her molten rage. ‘You’re a fool, Amelia. Princesses do not get to choose. You will marry or stay single as your father pleases.’ Charlotte gazed out of the window, looking into the past. She chuckled drily. ‘Love! My sister loved a man once, back in Mecklenburg-Strelitz. An English duke. He would have been a good match for her. Do you know what happened?’

  Reluctantly, Amelia shook her head.

  ‘My brother struck a deal to marry me to the King of England. Suddenly everything changed and my sister couldn’t have her man. It was written in the terms of the contract. She never saw her lover again.’

  Amelia’s mouth hung open. ‘But that’s not fair!’

  ‘No, it’s not. Life is not fair.’ It certainly wasn’t fair when it stole her darling husband’s mind, when it killed her baby boys.

  Amelia put her hands to the curls at her forehead. ‘I won’t give him up,’ she murmured. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘No!’ she screamed.

  Lord bless her, she still thought she could win. She thought she could beat Charlotte in a struggle of wills. There could be no hints with this girl, no coercing halfmeasures. Charlotte would have to be cruel. ‘You’ll give him up,’ she said slowly, ‘or I’ll tell your father. It will send him mad – for good, this time. And it will all be your fault.’

  Without a word Amelia turned on her heel and strode from the room, showing Charlotte her back, as if she were an ordinary woman, not a Queen entitled to respect. She shut the door with a reverberating bang.

  Charlotte was strangely satisfied.

  The Dutch House, Kew

  Sophia stared at the mound of dishes on the table, wondering which one to risk. She had to bolt something down – her lack of appetite was attracting notice. Plates of cutlets, pies, jelly and fish lay before her, all displayed beautifully, some fanned out with a decorative garnish. But the thought of eating made her gag.

  She had received a letter through her trusted messenger, Robinson, just before going in to dress. At first she was relieved Garth had answered her frantic enquiries, but now, sitting down to
dinner in a room as white as her drained skin, she wished she had never asked him.

  Knives scratched against the Dresden china. Mary’s glass of wine chinked as she picked it up to take a sip. No one spoke. Sophia thanked God for it. In this state, she could not feign conversation. Garth had gone behind her back. Her baby, whom she meant to save with a life of obscurity, would be his. An adopted nephew, Garth said. He thought no one would suspect, this long after the birth. He was a fool.

  Sophia swallowed against the taste of soup. Her stomach felt full of liquid, sloshing, seething. At last, she took a mutton chop offered to her and winced as it hit her plate with a wet, meaty slap. All Garth had been waiting for was her word of honour; her assurance the baby was his. Now he could see it resembled him, not Ernest, he had no hesitation. He did not think of the King.

  I was at fault, I was scared and you have every reason to hate me. But I beg you will not. I am willing to forget what has passed – say you are too.

  I told you I had a plan, and I always did. I have saved enough money now to put it into action. Come away with me, Sophy. Let us be a family. Of course we cannot stay here, but there are homes outside of England. Would not America receive us with open arms?

  There are places on the coast where the sun shines all year round. I know you would be fit and well there. I know our boy would thrive.

  Sophia surveyed the room, taking in the hefty fireplace, the organ, the self-portrait of Van Dyke. What a liberating and terrifying experience it would be, leaving Kew forever. There would be no heavy red curtains in an American home, no Tudor rose carved into the ceiling. Plain living on Garth’s slender savings, with her son in her arms.

  Reason closed the shutters on her imaginary scene with a snap. It was every bit as foolish as a daydream. How would she escape, where would she run to without being recognised? She was chained to this palace, this family. Garth was talking like a Bedlamite.

  Long ago, in a stall sweet with the smell of hay, he promised he would never hurt her father. He had forgotten, but Sophia did not find it so easy to sponge the poor King from her mind.