Queen of Bedlam

by Laura Purcell

  ‘Mama? Is that you?’

  Black spots threatened Charlotte’s vision as she approached the bed. She noticed a beaten volume of Richardson’s Clarissa splayed out on the sheets and pushed it to the floor, remembering the tragic death of the heroine at the end. ‘Yes. It’s me.’

  ‘Thank God. I thought . . . I thought I was in prison.’ Amelia pressed her fingertips against her eyelids.

  ‘No.’ Charlotte wanted to take Amelia’s hand and hold it for dear life, but it was so thin and tiny – almost transparent. If she touched it, it would break.

  Awkwardly, Amelia shuffled up on the pillows. Her wet lips gagged and twisted into a retch.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Amelia’s eyes flashed, mocking the stupidity of the question.

  ‘No.’ Charlotte’s cheeks blazed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘Please, Amelia, sit still. Don’t trouble yourself.’

  Amelia rummaged in the cabinet beside her bed. For once, her disobedience did not anger Charlotte.

  ‘Here.’ Amelia’s fragile hand closed upon an object. ‘Put out your hand.’

  She placed a smooth, cool object in Charlotte’s palm. It was an oval locket on a long, delicately wrought chain. At the centre sat a coil of Amelia’s hair, already cut off from her, already dead.

  Charlotte sensed the importance of this moment, this memory, and the consciousness took her breath away. Soon this locket would become her relic; an object she stared at in wonder. The blonde curl at its heart used to move against Amelia’s shoulders and shine in the sunshine.

  Amelia’s eyes, her father’s eyes, pierced Charlotte. ‘I hope your own suffering and anxiety will soon be over. I only ask that you take this and remember me.’

  Guilt spread through Charlotte like a scratchy, blistering rash. Why had she let envy and despair wade between her and this dear daughter? She still remembered carrying her in the womb, fearing for her safety. How had they grown so far apart? Even now, even this last time, Charlotte did not have the words to ask for forgiveness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Windsor Castle

  Winter 1810

  Stars shone in the ebony sky of a bitter November night. Sugary frost dusted the grass.

  Charlotte shivered in her rooms in the Upper Ward, imagining Amelia in the stone-cold crypt. Etiquette forbade her and the princesses from attending the funeral; as always they had the harder task of sitting, waiting and imagining.

  It was all over now. Already, Charlotte felt the deadness of her depression steal over her, a worm gnawing at her soul. There would be no recovery this time. The family would not pick themselves up and start again as they tried to do after Alfred and Octavius passed. The King would not rally. Even now, as they lowered the body of his favourite daughter into the royal vault of St George’s chapel, he lay prostrate in a drugged sleep. In the morning he would wake and rave about how she had risen from the dead. It wasn’t just Charlotte’s daughter they buried tonight; they were committing to the ground the last remains she had of a husband.

  Dear Prince George would have his way: the Regency would come at last. The war, the expense of a Regent’s court and the King’s medical care would diminish, if not expunge, Charlotte’s household. Come morning she would give notice to dozens of loyal, well-loved members of the staff. Her musicians would go and they would sell the horses. She would have nothing left to remind her.

  As the bell tolled, Mary and Sophia grew still. They knew the sound signalled the entrance of the hearse. Without thinking, Charlotte rose to her feet and prowled by the window. Only the orange gleams of flambeaux reached her across the ward, but it didn’t matter – she knew all the arrangements and her imagination supplied the rest.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the solemn carriage led by eight black horses, dark feathers fluttering between their ears. She saw the troop of Royal Household Blues, their swords glinting in the moonlight as they raised them in salute. Her sons would be there, dark cloaks drawn up against the cold, wearing black boots. They would weep in the torchlight, watching the Yeomen of the Guard lift the coffin down onto their shoulders.

  A log shifted on the fire. The princesses jumped as it hissed and fizzed but Charlotte’s nerves remained untouched. She had been here before; she had ridden the waves of misery, coming up for snatches of air before plunging back into the depths of dismay. But this time there would be no second dawn. Not for the King, not for Charlotte.

  Windsor Castle

  A feather bolster supported Sophia’s weak body. Warmth coated her skin, spreading out from the many quilts and sheets heaped upon her bed. She could live her life like this, she realised; give into the tug of her body and exist as a spoilt invalid. Why not retire from the world and stay where it was safe? All fire and struggle had departed with Amelia’s death. It brought Sophia a strange relief. The worst had happened: the King was mad beyond cure. George took up the reins as Regent. There was nothing left to fear. A great weight of suspense had lifted and left her lighter, free.

  A soft knock came at the door. She blinked as a servant shuffled in.

  ‘The Prince of Wales – I mean, the Prince Regent, Your Highness.’

  Delight flooded her as George appeared, dressed in black velvet. He was the princesses’ world now, their comfort.

  ‘My dear! Do come and sit down. How good of you to visit a sad old cat like me.’

  He lifted his flabby cheeks in a half-hearted smile. Strain pulled at his eyes and brow. After many years longing for the crown, it seemed he found it a burden. ‘You are precious to me,’ he said, his eyes misting over. ‘All my remaining sisters are infinitely precious.’

  Sophia bowed her head, replaying Amelia’s death. She saw Sir Henry holding up the candle to her thin, white lips to see if the flame flickered. It didn’t. Then he’d drawn the curtain, closing out her little sister and an era of Sophia’s life. ‘Amelia was brave right to the end. She was not afraid. She did not want us to mourn for her.’

  George sat in a chair beside the bed. The cushions creaked beneath him as he crossed his legs. ‘All the same, I cannot sleep since it happened. I need candles in the room with me.’

  Sophia clasped his big hand in her own. ‘We must look forward.’

  A cloud cleared from his brow. ‘Yes, you’re right. That is why I am here – to cheer you.’ His blue eyes sparkled as he reached into his pocket and produced a small box wrapped with ribbons. Smiling, Sophia accepted it and opened her gift. A pendant shaped like a pansy sparkled back at her.

  ‘Another present? You are so kind to me. To all of us.’ She leaned forward and let him fasten the necklace around her throat.

  ‘You need me.’ George blew out his breath. ‘The whole family is in a sorry state. I have just been to see Ernest. He recovers well, but he is still shaken up. Fancy being slashed by your own valet! That’s what he gets for employing foreign rascals.’

  The rascal in question, Sellis, had slit his own throat with a razor shortly after the failed attack. But as always with Ernest, there was gossip.

  ‘And those awful rumours that it was all staged? That Ernest . . .’ she hesitated, unable to say the disgusting words, ‘. . . killed Sellis himself?’

  George scowled. ‘They still fly. He will have to lay low until they settle.’ His eyes met hers, intent with meaning. ‘There will always be rumours about Ernest.’

  She blushed and looked down. Surely George didn’t think . . .? ‘Have you visited Mary too?’ she asked to change the subject. After tireless hours of nursing, Mary was laid low in a nervous collapse. They blistered the back of her head and told her to sleep, but she couldn’t obey. As soon as she closed her eyes, she told Sophia, Amelia was there, watching back.

  George shifted in his chair. ‘Yes. In fact, I have called on Mary, Augusta and Elizabeth to tell them what I’m about to tell you.’

  Her heart dropped. ‘What now? Not more bad news?’

  ‘N
o – good news.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘You have all been held captive for too long. I’m making you independent. I’ve asked Parliament to grant you eight thousand a year each – and they have agreed.’

  The mattress shifted beneath her. Eight thousand pounds! It was enough to keep a house of her own, it was the key to freedom. ‘George,’ she breathed. For a moment, happy images of the future danced, weaving their magic spell. Then a sour face appeared and sent them plummeting down. ‘The Queen will hate it if she cannot keep us close. She will spit fire.’

  George’s lips twisted in a wry smile. ‘It does her good to rage. Give her something to fume about and she comes alive again.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Seriously, though. I will look after the Queen. I’ve failed her once – I will not do it again.’

  It felt like a long time ago, the first Regency crisis. George was a different person back then. It made Sophia sad to think he still blamed himself for the recklessness of youth. Who could say they had not been a fool, years ago? Not Sophia; not the Queen.

  ‘Thank you.’ Sophia shook her head, fighting down the sentimental tears that tickled her throat. ‘I know you struggle for money, and you give this out of your own Civil List. To four old spinsters who should be put in a bag and drowned! You are an angel. I will never forget it.’

  George coloured with pleasure. Whatever his faults, he had a soft heart that glowed when it gratified others. ‘Our sisters are making plans,’ he said. ‘Mary talks of marrying Cousin William. Well, he always had a soft spot for her. Elizabeth hopes to find a husband in a German province.’ He fixed her with his azure blue gaze. ‘What are your plans, Sophy?’

  Sophia swallowed a hard bud of regret. ‘You know marriage is impossible.’

  ‘Garth wouldn’t have you?’

  Pride scorched her belly. She couldn’t think of Garth without antipathy now. He had believed disgusting gossip and blamed her for loving the King. He was not the man she thought he was. ‘No. He thinks me heartless.’

  He had resented her from the moment she turned down his plan to run away. If he had waited, if he had realised they just had to bide their time until the King passed into lunacy, it might have been different. But now that door was closed. At ten years old, Tommy would never open his arms to her and call her Mama. She had missed too much.

  George grimaced. He leant forward in the chair and plaited his fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Sophy. I thought there might be hope. If I had known . . .’ He squirmed. ‘Look, I’ve given Garth a place in my daughter’s household. Just say the word if it makes you uncomfortable, and I will remove him.’

  Part of her yearned to do it – cast him out from the family. But she knew he would serve her niece well.

  ‘No, keep him on. It will benefit the child.’

  George stared at her, as if he knew she meant Tommy and not Charlotte. ‘It is a good allowance,’ he said.

  Sophia nodded. Tommy deserved the best. Lord knew, he had lost much.

  She stirred from her thoughts as George laid a warm hand upon hers. ‘I’ve brought her with me, you know. Little Charlotte.’

  The mist retreated from Sophia’s head. Magical Charlotte, who even managed to make the dour old Queen laugh. She was only a few years older than Tommy; another child parted from its mother.

  ‘She asks after her Aunt Sophy. You’re the favourite.’

  Joy glowed inside her. Such a simple thing, the affection of a child, but what a difference it made.

  ‘She will need a lady to guide her,’ George prompted. ‘She is just a girl and heir to the throne. She has no one to look up to. Her mother is . . . unsuitable.’

  A spark of rebellion flickered through her. Poor Caroline. But although Sophia still felt for her sister-in-law, she didn’t cleave to her like she used to. The Wales marriage was no longer black and white. A government report had exposed Caroline’s shocking behaviour whilst living apart from her husband, and Ernest swore that she had fuelled the rumours about his supposed incest. Sophia didn’t know who to believe, but while George sat there holding her hand and promising her protection, she would be a fool to turn him away.

  ‘It will be an honour to help Charlotte.’

  George released her hand and beamed. ‘Good! I’ll go and fetch her, shall I?’ He rose, groaning, to his feet and made his way to the door. He checked on the threshold. ‘It will be all right, you know. You, me and Augusta will care for the Queen and raise little Charlotte. Your life won’t be wasted; you must never think that.’

  Sophia leant back against the bolster and closed her eyes. George spoke the truth. It was her duty to care for her mother and a privilege to assist a future sovereign. Especially if that future sovereign was a child who could fill the gap in her heart.

  Yes, that was her destiny. God never closed a door without opening one. Sophia would devote herself to Queen Charlotte – this one and the next.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The Dutch House, Kew

  1818

  The room in Kew was small and unpretentious. Charlotte kept a modest, white bed and a few pictures of her children on the walls. It was here she would die. After so many years longing for the release of death, it stood at her shoulder, stroking her hair, and she was terrified. Judgement day had come, and she had much to answer for.

  Mary moved to the little table in front of her and plumped the cushion upon it. Charlotte could no longer lie in bed. Here, in her favourite black horsehair chair, she was as comfortable as she would ever be in this life – she did not dare to speculate about the next.

  Augusta came to hold her hand. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Mama. George and Frederick will be here soon.’

  Charlotte pressed her cheek to the pillow, where it lay slick with perspiration and tears. Her dim eyes searched the room for Elizabeth. Of course they would not see her, far away in Bad Homburg, where she had finally found a husband. She would never see her favourite daughter again, nor Sophia, too sick to travel from Windsor.

  ‘What is it, Mama?’ Mary laid a hand upon her cheek.

  Charlotte’s voice cracked. ‘I wish to God I could see your sisters and your brothers! Tell them I love them.’

  ‘They will be here, Mama. They will be here soon.’

  Charlotte always imagined she would die holding her husband’s hand. But, ensconced in Windsor, he was oblivious to her illness. Her name was an empty word to him. The old, balding head retained no memories of their wedding, their children, their life together. Only dreams and fantasies played behind the blind, cloudy eyes.

  Charlotte remembered him as he was, her handsome King, and her long dead love revived, triumphant like the phoenix. Memories waded around her, swallowing her. She didn’t mind – when she saw them, she didn’t feel pain.

  A rumbling noise stirred her back into the present.

  ‘Mama,’ Augusta said from a distance. ‘George and Fred are here.’

  Boots pounded up the staircase and Charlotte heard them as if she were underwater. She had to stay awake to say goodbye, but she was so, so tired. She had laboured hard to be strong and queenly in the years since she had washed up on England’s shore, a poor princess the people scoffed at. Now she must die with becoming grace, while the petrified wings of her soul beat against her failing body.

  ‘Mama!’ A voice that always had power over her: her firstborn George, her dearest son. She blinked away the settling haze and his face floated into her vision. The Prince Regent was an ageing man now, some fifty-six years old. So why did Charlotte see his face radiant with youth and chubby as a toddler? Why did she see long, curling hair and the blue eyes of his father when he took her hand?

  She tried to smile. Her four children sheltered her in a loving circle. Someone kissed her.

  ‘I love you, Mama.’ The words came in a childish lisp. Suddenly, Charlotte understood everything. Time was unwinding. In death, she would get her final wish.

  When she fell asleep she would awake as Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz once more, with ambe
r flames warming her grey hair and smooth skin. She would see Octavius, Alfred and Amelia.

  ‘Mama?’ Her son’s voice, a soft lullaby in her ears.

  ‘George,’ she breathed. The real King would come to her again – she only had to close her eyes and dream.

  ‘George.’

  She saw the silhouette of a young man with his back to her, standing before a setting sun. He was lean and athletic with leather boots up to his knees. Instead of a wig, he wore his own light brown hair pulled back into a queue.

  ‘George?’

  He turned at her voice. A ray of warm, orange light illuminated the features she knew so well: the high, proud forehead, long nose, globular eyes, pendulous lips.

  He smiled. ‘My love.’

  He was so young. No hints of madness tainted his handsome, radiant face. She ran to him and he opened his arms wide.

  ‘George!’

  His embrace enveloped her; the familiar, comforting scent of his skin filled her nostrils. A perfect dream.

  Mary reached out to touch the Queen’s arm. ‘Mama. Mama!’

  But she was already gone. The folds of her cheek pressed down against the pillow, sapped of life. No pulse beat, no breath flowed, yet on her aged lips there sat the faintest trace of a smile.

  EPILOGUE

  Ludwigsburg

  1818

  When the letters arrived on black-edged paper, Royal knew her mother was dead. She did not break the seal, but sat with the folded paper in her hands, looking out across the sunlit gardens of Ludwigsburg, and waited for the tears. They did not come.

  It was not a life to wish prolonged. Thirty lacerating years trying to save one man – a man who played his flute and ate cherry tarts through the long months of her final illness.