Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  Mr Rose stammered. ‘S-Sir?’

  ‘She’ll get back on the horse.’

  ‘But Your Majesty . . .’

  ‘She’s fine,’ the King insisted, his colour rising. ‘Look. She’s awake.’

  Sophia could not believe her ears. She gaped at Mr Rose and saw her despair reflected in his pinched face.

  ‘Please God she will be well, Your Majesty, but to prevent any ill effects from this accident we should. . . ‘

  ‘She’ll get back on the horse, I tell you.’ He slashed his riding crop in fury. ‘I’ll be damned if any of my children lack courage.’

  Amelia raised a shaking hand to quiet the equerries. With phenomenal effort, she pulled herself into a sitting position. The blood welled up scarlet over her face. ‘It’s all right,’ she said in a thin, feeble voice. ‘It’s all right. I’ll get back on.’

  The King nodded his approval. He did not see her grope blindly for her horse, did not hear her moan of suppressed agony as she heaved herself into the saddle. The road was dark and slippery with her blood.

  ‘There is only one of my children who wants courage, thank God,’ the King announced. ‘But I won’t name him, no, no. What a cursed fate he should be the one to succeed me!’

  No one listened to him. They watched the poor, unsteady Amelia and the red dripping from her nose.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Windsor Castle

  1809

  The costume of a queen lay folded on Charlotte’s bed. A deep, sapphire silk gown, foaming with lace and tight, restrictive sleeves. Stays and stomacher, their laces lined up with military precision. A black shawl to drape over her shoulders and blot out the chill.

  Cold floorboards pressed against Charlotte’s stockinged feet. She was not allowed a carpet, or even a rug, because the King said they harboured dust. Even in his lunacy, his word was rule. Charlotte longed for the day when all she had to worry about was dust.

  Her ladies prepared to perform their morning ritual. Each of them sized up the articles on the bed, working through the complex puzzle of which pieces came first and who would pass what to whom. As if it really mattered, now.

  They were shaking out her clean shift when a reluctant tap came at the door. Dread clenched her insides. There was no good news, no messenger with joyful tidings these days. She nodded to Lady Townshend. ‘Tell them to come back later.’

  The whole palace knew she dressed at this hour. She kept her routine regular as clockwork, just as the King liked it. But Lady Townshend came back, apology cringing in her face. ‘It is the Princess Sophia,’ she explained. ‘She insists on admittance, Your Majesty.’

  Charlotte closed her eyes. She didn’t want another argument. ‘Very well. Show her in.’ She held out her arms for the ladies to drape a peachy silk powdering robe over her shoulders. ‘And leave us.’

  Sophia shuffled into the room with her face turned down and her hands curled together. Charlotte watched her with a mother’s eye and nearly wept. What a waste.

  With that round, babyish face and big blue eyes, clear as a summer sky behind her spectacles, Sophia should be full of light and life. But she never stood a chance. She was what – eleven – when the King’s malady began? Sadness and illness had stripped the buoyancy from her skin, dirtied her straw-blonde hair. Blighted her, just like the rest of them.

  Without looking up, Sophia curtseyed. Charlotte saw that the action made her legs tremble violently.

  ‘Go on, then. Sit down.’

  As always, Sophia perched on the very edge of the chair, gripping the seat with her fingers.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, but she thought she knew. It would be a plea about the baby or Garth, perhaps an entreaty to be kinder to the King. Another petition she would have to refuse and look like a vile monster.

  ‘It’s Amelia.’

  Charlotte stumbled back to the chaise-longue and sat down. ‘What has she done now? Eloped?’

  Sophia tilted her chin up. Worry possessed her face, holding the features taut. ‘She is ill, Mama. She’s so very ill. I saw her cough up blood.’

  Everything swirled. It couldn’t be. Amelia was young, healthy. She still possessed enough spirit to argue about Fitzroy. And yet . . . Charlotte ran over her recent memories, scanning them frantically for signs of illness. Amelia had grown thinner. Her high-necked chemisette could not hide the ribs and collar bone that jutted through her chest.

  ‘Mama, someone has to tell the King. She needs treatment. Someone has to break it to him. I thought you the proper person.’

  No. She pictured him wringing his white hair, wailing in agony. Blaming her. ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes. I think we need to get her out of Windsor. Maybe to the sea.’

  Images of the rolling tide filled Charlotte’s mind. Last time, with Amelia’s bad knee, they had sent her to Worthing. She frowned, lines wrinkling her brow. That was where Amelia fell in love with Fitzroy. A flaming arrow of suspicion shot through her.

  ‘Do you think me a fool?’

  ‘What?’

  Charlotte curled her lip. ‘Oh, do not play the innocent. What is it she needs the time for? A secret marriage? Baptising a bastard child?’

  Colour rushed to Sophia’s wan cheeks. ‘No – Mama, no! She is really ill! I swear it!’

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. ‘I thought you, of all people, would know better than to encourage her.’ She wished the words back at once. It was like she had slashed her daughter with a sabre. Sophia curled into herself and her shoulders shook. Poor child. The business with Garth was her own fault, of course, but Charlotte understood her agony. Separation from a baby. Charlotte heard Sophia’s lonely sniffles and felt the pain in her own body. Was that how she had looked, mourning Octavius and Alfred?

  With an awkward motion she stood and patted Sophia’s back. She hadn’t practised playing the mother for a long while. ‘You did the right thing, you know,’ she said softly. Despite everything, Charlotte was proud of her for that. A truly noble action, a strength of character she had not expected in her frail daughter.

  Sophia gazed up, warily. ‘So you did know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘Who do you think told the King you had dropsy and were cured by roast beef?’

  Fresh tears cascaded down Sophia’s cheeks. Her voice broke. ‘My baby . . .’

  ‘Would have caused you pain sooner or later. Made you regret the sacrifices you made for him.’

  Sophia shook her head.

  ‘He will grow up loved,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘Garth will take care of him. He was always a man of honour. And you . . . You and I will look after the King.’

  Sophia raised her eyes. Tears made them burn with a turquoise flame. ‘As always.’

  ‘Yes. As always.’

  Sophia took the handkerchief Charlotte gave her and blew her nose. ‘He’ll need us more than ever now. Amelia really is ill.’

  Charlotte sighed. Did she believe it? Not in her heart. The girl was ambitious, hungry for love. She would stop at nothing to get her way. ‘I think Amelia has fooled you, Sophia, as she is trying to fool me.’ Sophia opened her mouth, but Charlotte cut her off. ‘Nonetheless, I will talk to the King.’

  Sophia swallowed. ‘What will you say?’

  Charlotte opened and closed her mouth. What would she say? There was a time she would have deposited all her secrets in the King’s gentle ear. Now she could barely form a sentence in his presence.

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ she sighed. ‘I always do.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Windsor Castle

  1810

  He knew her. Even after all this time, Charlotte felt a surge of hope. He could not see her clearly, but he knew her voice, knew her touch. It was a good day – a gift from Heaven. They were so rare. The King peered into her face. His eyes were swollen, with little snowdrops of skin peeling at the corners where leeches had sucked. ‘Charlotte?’

  She gripped his hand, as if her grasp could hold his mind and
tether it to the shores of sanity. ‘It’s me. I’m here.’

  ‘I want to talk to you about Amelia.’

  The name was like a blow to the face. Amelia. Always Amelia, whether lucid or mad. Charlotte dropped his hand.

  ‘She must come home,’ the King insisted. ‘Weymouth does her no good, no good at all.’

  ‘It is that foolish Quaker doctor who does no good. Send her Dr Millman for God’s sake, he will do the trick.’

  ‘She likes Pope.’

  ‘Then she’s a fool,’ Charlotte retorted.

  ‘She wants to go to Kew, to convalesce.’

  Of course she did. Little Kew, so removed from the world, would be the perfect place to meet Fitzroy or drop an illegitimate child. There could be no other motive. Why else would Amelia refuse to see a royal doctor, take Mary away with her and entreat them to return her to a secluded palace? She always was an extravagant, heedless girl. ‘Why Kew? There is no need for that. She can come here.’

  Strain pulled the King’s features. ‘Dr Pope says she cannot stay in the castle. It is too elevated and the rooms face east.’

  ‘I am sure he does,’ Charlotte said. ‘Can’t she stay somewhere else, close by? If she is as wretched as you say, we should have her near us.’

  The King weighed this. ‘She is in such a sad way, Charlotte. I do not like to deny her anything.’

  He never did.

  Jealous anger built to an intolerable degree. Charlotte wanted to shout, scream, blister him with words. But there was no vent for her, no gap of air to let the hot rage escape. She had to swallow her frustration and gloss over it until it became loving support. All to keep him lucid for a few more hours. Charlotte tried to keep the irritation from her voice. ‘She is not your only daughter. Think of Mary! It is not fair for her to be carted about the country waiting on Amelia. The poor girl is bearing all this on her own.’

  The King gave her a warning look. ‘I have told you already, I will not have them separated.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that. Only, if she must be with Amelia, she needs her family in easy reach. Augusta might take over nursing if she gets too tired.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he admitted. ‘That is true.’ He sat, put his hands together and rested his fingertips against his lips. ‘I would prefer to keep her here, close to me. God knows I would.’

  ‘Then do it. Kew indeed! Get her down to Windsor and send her Dr Millman. I have never seen a child so whimsical and selfish. Does Sophia make this fuss? Did she ever?’

  A growl rumbled in the King’s chest.

  Amelia, always Amelia, even in his first great illness. Rather than clinging to his wife when their little sons died, the King gave himself to their new daughter and turned her into this spoilt and wilful child.

  As Charlotte thought it over, she began to hate the very sight of the King; his useless eyes, his long nose, the stupid Windsor uniform and that massive forehead. She hated the castle he had caged her in, the life he had made her lead, and she hated this England where he had trapped her, like a pheasant in a net, and never, never taken her home.

  Charlotte heard the dry sound of his lips part.

  ‘The woman I married was so full of pity, she wept to see the poor and the wounded struggling through her country. She wrote to the King of Prussia himself to beg for mercy. Now she cannot spare a penny for her own daughter.’

  Indignation pulled her to her feet in a rustle of silk. How dare he? How dare he accuse her of changing? ‘The woman you married died of a broken heart.’

  He acknowledged the hit with a deep sigh. ‘I miss her.’

  So did Charlotte.

  Augusta Lodge, Windsor

  The air was close and moist with the promise of rain. Sophia and Augusta quickened their steps.

  ‘You must brace yourself,’ Augusta warned.

  It was all Sophia did, these days. First a valet attacked Ernest in his sleep, scratching more battle scars into his skin. Now Amelia collapsed. When Sophia visited her injured siblings, she yearned for a sickbed herself; somewhere to rest and escape from the cruel world. She wound her fingers around Augusta’s arm. ‘Is Amelia as bad as Papa was, during his fits?’

  Augusta adjusted a bell-shaped cage, which she carried in her other hand. ‘Worse,’ she said quietly. ‘I think she is worse.’

  They reached the lodge just as the first drops of rain fell from the sky. Footmen opened the door and the groom of the chamber took their things with solemn pageantry. Nobody smiled or raised their voice above a whisper.

  Amelia’s maid opened the door to the sickroom. Putrid air swam out and forced its way up Sophia’s nostrils – a noxious smell of unwashed hair, dirty linen and sweat.

  Amelia lay marooned on a bed in the middle of the room, propped up on a mountain of pillows. The instant Sophia saw her face, all hope fled.

  The happy, smiling Amelia of her childhood evaporated; she knew this pitiful image, and this image alone, would remain in her memory.

  Sharp cheekbones made Amelia’s face pointed and angular. A burning rash covered every inch of her skin. Here and there, stark welts stood out, glowering over the scabbed blisters. Oozing wounds peppered her cheeks and nose.

  ‘Dear heart, it is us. Augusta and Sophia, come to see you.’

  Amelia’s eyes, glassy with opium, struggled to focus. ‘Thank God. I thought it might be the Queen. Don’t let her come, will you? I can have no pleasure in seeing her.’ Her bony features contorted with rage. ‘She can stay locked up with Elizabeth. A pair of old hags together. Do you know, neither of them believe I’m ill?’

  More accurately, they did not want to believe Amelia was dying. Sophia recognised the Queen’s tactics; she had used them herself as a child, when her little brothers died. Close your eyes, pretend it isn’t real. If she didn’t see the truth, how could it hurt her?

  But the age of pretending had past. Reality burned through Sophia’s spectacles with painful clarity: Amelia was doomed. Dazed, Sophia followed Augusta across the room to kiss her sister. She applied her lips very carefully, avoiding the excruciating sores. Amelia’s skin carried the creamy, sickening scent of pus.

  Mary sat by the window, rigidly controlled. Her gaze did not shift from Amelia. She was like a tiger guarding its young.

  ‘Look what I have bought you, dearest.’ Augusta unveiled her cage to reveal a canary, hopping and scuttling about. ‘His note is so sweet. It won’t hurt your ears. I want you to have your music.’

  Amelia moved her face into a jagged grin. The little life remaining lit up her eyes. ‘Oh, thank you!’

  The bird cocked his head from side to side behind the golden bars of his cage. He fixed his beady gaze on Amelia and chirped.

  ‘No, don’t try to sit up,’ Mary rose swiftly, but it was too late. Amelia flinched and held herself taut, bracing her feeble body against bullets of pain.

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ Amelia’s eyebrows arched high into her forehead. ‘Have I broken something?’ she wailed. ‘I am sure my arm is broken.’

  Both Mary and Augusta positioned her back against the bed.

  ‘No, my love,’ Mary soothed. ‘No. Just wait, it will feel better.’

  Sophia could not look at them. She could not watch Amelia’s features and wonder when they would cease to move, or run her eyes over Amelia’s burning skin and imagine the blood beneath stilling. That fatal, Gotha blood.

  Amelia wept, wincing every time a salty tear entered a blister on her face. ‘Oh God, I will never see him again! I will never see my Charles before I die.’

  Mary spoke to the others in an undertone. ‘She has been like this all day. She keeps saying she wants her gravestone to say Amelia Fitzroy.’

  ‘Surely Papa would let us marry now, legally?’ Amelia asked, pathetically hopeful. ‘What harm can it do? It will not be for long.’

  They did not answer her. Which of them was cruel enough to speak the truth? It would always matter to their proud father who his children married, living or dead.

 
; Augusta fixed her gaze upon the happy little canary, so out of place, and balled her hands into fists. ‘I’ll bring Fitzroy to you, my love,’ she said. ‘You will see him again. I swear it.’

  Charlotte waited in the airless antechamber while the King occupied Amelia’s precious moments. She was too ill to see her parents together, so they took turns visiting. Charlotte acknowledged that she had not earned the right to go first. Once she and Amelia shared a body, but now they shared nothing.

  The door clicked but Charlotte did not look up. She did not want the moment to arrive. How could she go in there, knowing it would be the last time she laid eyes on her daughter? How would she ever say all she needed to?

  Footsteps scuffed across the carpet. Charlotte heard the King sniff up his tears and whine in misery. This would be the orchestration of her life from now on. He would cry for both of them. ‘Am I to go in?’ Ludicrously, Charlotte hoped he would say no. But he nodded his drooping head in a hopeless, heavy gesture.

  She stood and struggled toward the door. Her heavy gown held her back as if it was clogged with water. She couldn’t cope. She was drowning, sinking in the swirling currents of stress and pain, but still her feet went on. Asphyxiating heat engulfed her the moment she entered the sickroom. It pressed close against her face, along with a meaty smell from the cups of beef tea sitting discarded on the table.

  Amelia lay in her tangled bed dozing; five minutes with the King had drained her slim vial of energy. Charlotte’s stomach twisted. What could she say to comfort her daughter? There were no words, no magic spells to keep her with them. Mother couldn’t make it better.

  ‘No,’ Amelia murmured through her blue lips.

  Charlotte wondered what she dreamt of – the life she wanted with Fitzroy, the children she would never have, or the places she would never see.

  ‘No!’ Amelia jumped up with a gasp.

  Charlotte grabbed the bedpost. It wasn’t her girl who awoke but a thin ghost with giant eyes and dark rings beneath them. Amelia’s blonde ringlets were cropped short like a victim of the guillotine, and her downy scalp showed through the thin hair. Her skin was as delicate as when she was a babe in arms.