Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  She planted her fork into the mutton and watched juice run out of it. The thick scent turned her stomach once again. A voice whispered in her ear, teasing at her mind like sin. It told her the King was already mad. He had gone. No actions of hers could make him worse. She should run, now, and seize happiness while she had the chance.

  But would she really be happy? Guilt would weigh like a cannon on her chest. Each time she took her boy into her embrace, she would trace his features and find the King looking back at her. Every kiss of Garth’s would damn her, blight her.

  She cut the meat carefully into equal squares. Stabbing a piece on her fork, she willed herself to eat it. It had been the only way, all her life: forcing her body into acts it did not condone. Pushing herself beyond the limits of human endurance to be a perfect, dutiful princess. She would have to tell him no. She would have to slam the door on the prospect of sunny days and long, loving nights.

  Sophia placed the mutton cube on her tongue and slowly, painfully, ground it in her teeth. Fighting against her gorge, she swallowed the chewed meat down.

  Later, Robinson brought Sophia a response from Garth under the cover of darkness. She took a candle and broke the seal.

  The contents were brutal. Garth mocked her fears about the adoption. He denied it was foolish to parade their son – whom he had named Tommy – about the town. He branded Sophia as selfish and affected, an unnatural mother who never expressed a desire to see her own boy.

  The candle dripped and sputtered as the words scalded Sophia’s heart. God knew, she had only kept away for the sake of her son and for her father. She continued to hurt herself to protect her family, to protect Garth. She had acted for the good of everyone except herself. There would be no hope of reconciliation with Garth now. She knew, as she stared up at the brooding sky with tiny stars picked out beneath the clouds, that she was ruined.

  She threw the letter onto the dying fire, where it curled and blackened before catching light. As a dark stream of smoke rose from the flaming words, Sophia saw a shadow fall over her future. Black – nothing but black.

  Windsor

  ‘Your Majesty, do you understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ Charlotte replied, ‘but I can’t do it. How can I treat him as if he’s well? He is not well. He has not been well for many, many years.’

  Dr Heberden inclined his head respectfully. ‘Your Majesty, it does the King no good to see how nervous you are in his presence. He needs your strength.’

  She rounded on him. ‘I can tell you Dr Heberden, it does me no good to be in his presence.’ They always blamed her and treated the King’s illness as if it was her fault. No one spared an ounce of pity to think how she felt. With a clatter, Charlotte threw down her knife and fork. ‘I cannot eat that now. I’ll go to my bed. Girls, come.’

  Grimacing, her daughters fell in line behind her like sheep. The vanquished doctor bowed them out of the room.

  Charlotte looked out of her tall, thin window across the rolling hills. Dusk spread its wings over the long walk. The red, glimmering sun touched the path where it met the horizon. It looked like a slender chip of hope. On the other side of the lodge was a different view: the sturdy curtain wall of the castle. Encasing her inside this asylum. Charlotte sighed heavily and sat down to her dressing table.

  If only her son George would come. He understood what it was to be mewled up, tethered fast to a mad spouse.

  Her darling boy had fought hard over the past years, against Napoleon and against his wife. Thanks to Nelson and the Battle of Trafalgar, Napoleon was at bay, but Caroline . . . No matter what her outrages, no matter how much evidence George produced against her, the King would not give way. George grew too tired to battle on.

  Charlotte was tired, as well.

  She thought of the document with its great swirls of black ink, locked, waiting, in her desk. All she had to do was sign it. One little flourish and the King’s treatment would be decided by the cabinet, not her. The burden would lift. Could she do it? Even now, it felt wrong. The final kiss of betrayal. But God knew she couldn’t carry on much longer.

  In the glass, she saw the reflection of her five daughters standing perfectly still, expressionless like the porcelain ornaments that littered the windowsills.

  ‘I tried to get you out of this,’ she told them. ‘My nephew wanted to come from Mecklenburg-Strelitz and claim one of you for his bride. But even when the King is well he gives me nothing but excuses. The Hereditary Prince will stop waiting and marry someone else.’

  The mirrored images drooped like candles melting to their wicks. Charlotte turned on her stool and put out her hands. ‘Come. We are better off together. Heaven knows what I would do without you, my girls.’ They laid their hands in hers. Their fingers were icy cold. She squeezed them and looked up, staring pointedly between Amelia and Sophia. ‘It is a fine thing to have an establishment of your own. But in the end, men will only bring you pain. Remember that.’

  Charlotte sensed Amelia raise her hackles. She was still young and romantic. But Sophia seemed to hear the truth in her words. A single tear slid down her plump cheek and dripped onto the satin breast of her gown.

  Suddenly, Charlotte heard a bump and a holler upstairs. She dropped her daughters’ hands and twisted back to face the mirror. Her own eyes greeted her, huge and terrified. ‘You will stay here,’ she panted. ‘You will stay here until I dismiss you.’

  Hot blood hammered through her body, making her thoughts swim. Another scene – another attack. He would try to come to her bed again.

  She could not bear it, she could not stand an instant alone with him. Why would he not stay away and leave her with the memories of him, young and sane?

  Ladies swarmed over to her dressing table and removed the large, square diamonds from her hair. It was thin and coarse now. As her locks fell down around her shoulders, Charlotte noticed liver spots on her face and neck. She focused on them, fixed points mooring her to reality. She schooled her breath into regular, heavy gulps.

  The King burst into the room with the chime of the clock, panting and red faced. An enormous, old-fashioned periwig swamped his head and nearly covered his chest. He looked like a rabid bear. Charlotte steeled herself. Any show of emotion would only excite him. She raised her thin eyebrows a fraction in the looking glass. ‘Your Majesty.’ She was impressed by the clear, crystal cold sound of her voice. ‘What is that on your head?’

  He laughed. ‘Thought you’d like it. Going to wear it for the Knights of the Garter Ceremony, what?’

  She pulled a face – tried to make it clear he could not discompose her serenity – even though her pulse knocked at the back of her throat. ‘As you wish.’

  The King watched her in the mirror, carelessly wiping powder from her face. Then, inexplicably, he began to sob.

  Sophia and Amelia rushed to comfort him. Charlotte did not move. This melancholy could switch to violence with a snap of the fingers.

  ‘Papa?’

  His elbow bore down on Sophia’s shoulder. One hand shielded his eyes. ‘Oh, Sophy, he’s dead!’ he wailed.

  ‘Who is dead?’

  ‘My brother, the Duke of Gloucester. He’s dead!’ He bent over with grief.

  Sophia held him gently. ‘Yes, Papa. For a few weeks now, I think?’

  He wept wordlessly. The ridiculous wig slid to the floor as his thin ribcage heaved with sobs.

  Charlotte watched Sophia stroke his small, stubbly head and realised she would have done that, once. But she couldn’t now. She couldn’t even swivel on her stool.

  ‘Mama? What do we do?’

  Charlotte inhaled and addressed the King in a bright, clipped voice. ‘Come, sir, it will look better in the morning. Now you must go – it is time for bed.’

  Sophia gaped at her. ‘He is not well! He needs some comfort.’

  ‘By all means, Sophy, take him outside and comfort him.’

  The King snuffled against Sophia’s shoulder. ‘I want to stay here,’ he whine
d. ‘I want to stay with the Queen. Let me stay.’

  Horror gave Charlotte the impetus to stand and face them. ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Mama! For pity’s sake! Look at him!’

  She did. He was as innocent as a bawling toddler, wet beneath the nose with shining, pleading eyes. But she knew how quickly this mood could turn. She couldn’t explain to Sophia – she could not begin to describe the terror of those nights, alone with him.

  ‘Your husband, Mama! The King! How can you deny him anything?’

  Anger surged through her. How dare Sophia criticise? How dare she scold her own mother on horrors she knew nothing about? Charlotte pounced on Sophia and twisted a pinch of flesh hard between her fingers, making her gasp.

  ‘We all know you will not deny a man anything, Sophy,’ she hissed. ‘Take him away.’

  Sophia dragged her bewildered father from the room, all wet with tears. Charlotte held the door for them, her nostrils flaring. ‘Sleep, sir,’ she managed to say. ‘You will feel better.’

  Father and daughter fell into the corridor and Charlotte snapped the door shut behind them. With shaking hands, she slid three bolts across the wood and turned the key in the lock.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Ludwigsburg

  1806

  Royal’s suite of rooms buzzed with the excitement of Twelfth Night. Her ladies had gathered raisins and brandy for snap-dragon, and a pail of water and some apples for bobbing. They splashed each other and ran, shrieking, to the corners. Royal smiled and shuffled a pack of cards in preparation for the family games.

  All in all, she was content. She had done her duty – for the children, as well as Fritz. Paul was married to Princess Charlotte of Saxe-Hildburghausen and Trinette, darling Trinette, was engaged to Napoleon’s brother.

  She shivered, despite the warmth of her furs. Ghostly memories stalked her. She saw a library long ago, and a King sitting opposite his daughter as she begged him for the chance to marry. Trinette would never feel that desperation. She would not have to stagnate in a prolonged spinsterhood. Royal had done the best she could for her. Still, there was something in it that smacked of treachery. It was an alliance of pure politics – not a love match.

  Outside, church bells pealed through the frosty air. She tapped the pack of cards on the table. She understood, now, the King’s reluctance to let her go. Fears for Trinette’s future ate away at her. Would Royal cope without her girl, without Paul? Just her, Fritz and Wilhelm.

  In spite of their efforts, no second baby quickened in Royal’s womb. She spent days on her knees, bruising them against the hard stone floor of the chapel, praying it was not too late. The fertile years were running out, but surely she would bear a child soon. A live child. She had to. If she did not, and her courses stopped, it would all have been for nothing. Betraying her father, spending time in exile, enduring Fritz’s temper . . . All for nothing.

  Shaking off the terrible thought, she put down the cards and went to join her ladies. She could not waste time with regret. The King was too deranged to understand she was on the other side now. Without his disapproval, how could she repent? The war was over for Württemberg. In a bitter winter, she was warm and safe inside her luxurious palace with its marble corridors and swagged curtains. If they hadn’t joined Napoleon, she would not be supervising the placement of holly or savouring the tang of orange peel in the air; she’d be preparing for another winter in exile.

  The door crashed open and Fritz strode into the room with an entourage of jubilant men. ‘Charlotte, get changed at once.’

  Obediently, Royal stood and her ladies flew to the closet. ‘What shall I wear?’

  He beamed at her. ‘My love, wear your most magnificent gown.’

  She couldn’t read his face. She had never seen him this happy, not even when she told him she was with child. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To church. We must give thanks.’

  ‘What for, my dear? Tell me what for!’

  His strong hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her straight. ‘Stand tall, Charlotte. Today you have been made Queen of Württemberg.’

  The ladies gasped. Royal stood, stunned. ‘Queen?’

  ‘Yes. Emperor Napoleon has made us a kingdom. We are King and Queen.’

  Dizziness swept over her. It was too good to be true, too wonderful for words. Queen Charlotte of Württemberg! All those years and now she had finally done it – she had beaten her mother. The Queen of England could look down on her no more – Royal was her equal. Despite the attendants, she flung herself into Fritz’s arms.

  His belly rumbled with a hearty chuckle. ‘Go on then, dress, dress! I expect you to look every inch a queen.’

  The men bowed to Royal before escorting Fritz back out of the room. The instant the door clicked shut, the ladies erupted in a giggle of hysterical joy.

  ‘A queen!’ cried Madame de Spiegel. ‘I will call you Your Majesty!’

  Royal laughed. ‘Oh yes,’ she said with mock severity. ‘Make sure you start at once!’

  ‘Gracious, what will we put you in? I have never dressed a queen before!’

  Royal thought of her mother and the time she spent on her clothes; the way she controlled the princesses’ outfits, making them dress in matching, inferior versions of her own gown. ‘I will let you choose,’ she said. ‘I have something to do.’

  While they pulled dress after dress out of Royal’s wardrobe, agonising over velvet, satin or watered silk, she ran to her writing desk. Driven entirely by impulse, she seized a piece of paper, dipped her pen in the ink and wrote:

  To my very dear mother and sister Queen

  She fell back in her chair, laughing. The Queen would hate it, she would absolutely hate it. The very thought of her mother’s outraged face made her shriek with joy.

  Weymouth

  ‘Chin up, Sophy! Carry on, carry on!’ The King pulled his horse alongside Sophia’s and slapped her forcefully on the rump. She tensed as fresh bites of pain gnawed through her muscles. The streets blurred in a laudanum haze. She was drugged up to the hilt and far too ill to ride, but the King paid no heed.

  Only the memory of what he once was, and the hope of what he would be again, kept Sophia beside the red-faced, leering man who hung from the saddle with saliva running down his chin. He had raised her from the cradle. Could she love him less, now?

  Amelia kept her horse near Fitzroy’s – for once, not for flirtation, but for protection. ‘Won’t the Queen expect us back soon?’

  The King shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no, no. I’m not going back there.’ Once again he aimed his mount at Traveller, riding so close to Sophia that his boots kicked her stirrup. Traveller huffed with discontent. ‘You are my friend, Sophy, so I can tell you. I can’t go on with her like she is. She is not my Queen, and they refuse to let me go to Lady Pembroke, although everyone knows I am married to her. That scoundrel Dr Halford was at the wedding, you know, and he has the effrontery to deny it to my face!’

  Sophia’s vision flickered. She took a clump of Traveller’s mane in one hand and the pommel of the saddle in the other to steady herself.

  ‘But it doesn’t matter. I will find someone else. What do you think, eh?’

  ‘I lament it,’ she told him. With her little remaining strength, she raised her face to his. Horror surged through her as she caught him staring down the front of her dress. She pulled Traveller away. She had sacrificed her happiness for this – chosen mad ravings and salacious looks instead of Garth and Tommy. Regret stole her breath. In her giddiness, she feared sliding from Traveller’s back. An avenue of trees arched over the riders’ heads, shading them from the heat. The path fell away and declined into a hill. Sophia leant back in her saddle, ready to help Traveller balance his weight.

  ‘We’ll canter!’ The King whooped a halloo and dug his heels into the flanks of his horse.

  Before the riders could react, their mounts charged after the King’s horse. Scrambling hooves clattered against g
ritty cement. Wind rushed past Sophia’s ears, knocking her hat off, and she bounced dangerously in the saddle. Her foot flew out of the stirrup. This was it. She was going to die. The road was far, far too steep.

  Her weak fingers clung to the reins for all they were worth, forcing Traveller to sense the pressure on his mouth. He slowed, but she felt his hooves slide beneath her. The other horses jostled past Traveller, knocking painfully against Sophia’s legs. She watched them fly forward like a quiver of arrows, their shoes scraping on the ground. Suddenly a scream rent the air. Not just the shriek of a girl, but the throaty groan of a terrified animal. Sophia’s head snapped up.

  Amelia’s horse wheeled his front legs uselessly in the air, no longer in control of them. In the next instant he plunged, fell to his knees and scraped them on the stones with a pitiful cry. Amelia cart-wheeled over his head, flew into the air and landed flat on her face. Sophia gasped, her stomach plunging in time with Amelia’s body. A volley of shouts rang out from the other riders – they yanked back their reins, screeching their horses to a halt just before trampling over the inert princess.

  Amelia’s horse recovered his feet, stumbling. His knees were badly grazed. Amelia did not move.

  The equerries surrounded her in an instant, turning her over, rubbing her temples. The only person who did not swing out of his saddle and charge to her side was the father that doted on her.

  Fitzroy propped Amelia’s head up in his lap. Dark streams of blood poured from her nostrils and ran over her lips.

  A sob bubbled out of Sophia and she raised her hand to catch it. A broken neck? A shattered skull?

  ‘My house is nearby,’ said Mr Rose. ‘Let’s take her there and lay her down.’

  Amelia’s eyelids flickered open.

  ‘Thank God!’ Sophia cried. ‘Let’s go at once.’

  ‘No.’ The King’s hard voice cut through their plan, shattering it to pieces. He sat straight and tall, staring down at Amelia as if she were no more than an insect.