Queen of Bedlam Page 3

  The King plunged to his knees in time with Royal’s heart. In that instant, she saw her.

  The crumpled figure, falling into spasms on the castle floor, was painfully familiar. It was her sister Elizabeth.

  Lower Lodge, Windsor

  It was horrific. Charlotte sat perfectly still, concentrating on the pain shooting through her head.

  Every migraine was crippling, but she welcomed this one – it overpowered her senses and swept away her thoughts. She didn’t want to think tonight; her reflections appalled her.

  First there were the spasms. Then, Elizabeth erupted in scrofulous abscesses. The doctors murmured about an inflammation of the lungs, but it meant nothing to Charlotte. Would Elizabeth live? That was all she wanted to know.

  At the last count, Elizabeth had lost two and a half pints of blood, yet she was not purged of the sickness. Still the physicians opened fresh veins and blistered her sweet, soft skin. Charlotte could only beg God not to take her daughter, her best girl. Not Elizabeth. Any of them but Elizabeth.

  The court buzzed with the old whispers that had flown about when Octavius had sickened, just as suddenly as Elizabeth. Gotha blood. A dark enemy, poisoning the veins, threatening to strike down her children at a moment’s notice.

  With her head throbbing, Charlotte tried to wind herself in and become the serene Queen she needed to be. Whatever happened, she would have to carry on. She could not fail her husband.

  Her old friend and servant Madame Schwellenberg entered the room with a basin of warm elderflower water. She sat beside Charlotte and pried her hands from her face. In small, circular motions, she bathed her forehead and eyelids. The rash that ailed Charlotte in moments of stress had erupted all over her skin.

  ‘Has the doctor been out?’

  Madame Schwellenberg hushed her. ‘Time for that later. You rest, now.’

  A wooden rattle scratched on the door. Charlotte’s eyelids sprang open and she rose to her feet, nearly knocking the basin from Madame Schwellenberg’s hands.

  ‘Enter,’ she called, in a voice unlike her own.

  A page opened the door for the King. George looked tired and anxious. Charlotte’s stomach plunged at the sight of him. No. No. She can’t be dead.

  Caring nothing for Madame Schwellenberg, he threw his arms open and Charlotte flew into them. His solidarity was like a harbour in a storm. She could not look up – she only wanted to remain safe, buried in his chest. If she never came out from the lapels of his coat, they could never tell her the awful, awful news . . .

  He caressed the back of her head, knocking her lace cap askew. ‘She is safe,’ he whispered, tears choking his voice. ‘The doctor has told me she is out of danger.’

  Charlotte’s knees gave way but George’s arms held her up. Tears spilled from her eyes, stinging her rash, and soaked into her husband’s cravat.

  ‘I thought we were going to lose her,’ she sobbed. ‘I thought – I thought it would happen again.’

  ‘I know, my love. I know.’

  She raised her face to his. ‘I couldn’t bear it, George, if we lost another child. I wouldn’t survive it.’

  His blue eyes filled with tears. ‘Neither would I,’ he admitted. ‘Neither would I.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The White House, Kew

  1788

  Charlotte couldn’t sleep for the infernal heat. Muggy air pressed against her body like the thoughts pressing on her mind.

  She dozed on and off, feverish images running past her eyelids. Although Elizabeth had made a full recovery over the past three years, fresh worries sprang up to torment Charlotte.

  The harvests would be ruined by this heatwave; she imagined desperate farmers wielding pitchforks, withered plants and black corn.

  George groaned and turned over, shifting the mattress and snapping Charlotte awake. The covers swished and rustled. Suddenly there was a jerk, and the frame of the bed creaked like a thing in pain.

  Charlotte rolled onto her side, her heart thudding. George thrashed beside her, clutching at his stomach. Immediately the curse of Gotha blood, the blood of her mother-in-law, flew into Charlotte’s mind.

  She sat up and put her arm around him. ‘My love?’

  He gasped and looked at her with pleading eyes. ‘A pretty smart bilious attack. Feels like a spasm in my stomach.’ He clenched his teeth.

  The nightmares were still fresh in Charlotte’s mind. She clung onto George, her fingertips digging into his shoulders.

  ‘It’s the dryness and the heat,’ she said, more to reassure herself than him. ‘Everybody is troubled with it.’

  He writhed in the bed. ‘I daresay you’re right. But it hurts like the devil.’

  Charlotte’s bleary eyes groped in the darkness for a clock, wondering if it was too late to summon a physician. She could barely distinguish the hands in the gloom, but it looked about three in the morning.

  ‘I fear I’ll stop you sleeping,’ said George. ‘Why don’t you go to the couch in the dressing room? I’d go myself, if I thought I could.’

  As if she could abandon him! But it was like him to be ill and think of her first. A surge of sweet love flowed through her, so intense it almost hurt. Her hands gripped his nightshirt.

  ‘I wouldn’t leave you,’ she said softly. She turned and put her feet on the carpet. ‘I’ll ring for Madame Schwellenberg. She can send for Baker. At the very least, he’ll give you something to ease the pain.’

  ‘I don’t like to cause a fuss . . .’

  Charlotte pressed a finger to his lips. She was taking no chances. ‘I insist. You are precious. We cannot be too careful of you.’

  George kissed her finger. ‘I’ve always said it: you are a treasure, Charlotte. A treasure.’

  But his kind words were cut short by a sudden howl of pain. Charlotte ran to the bell and jangled it until the lever broke.

  Kew

  Royal paced outside the cabinet. She heard the soft tones of the Queen rise and fall behind the door, but she could not make out the words.

  Tension pulled sharply at her shoulders and her neck. The King’s spasm had lasted from three o’clock in the morning to eight o’clock at night. Surely that was not normal? Royal pressed her ear against the door and Sir George Baker’s voice rumbled back at her. She heard the word gout.

  Just gout? Royal wanted to believe it, but doubt tugged in her mind.

  A scrape of chairs warned her the physician was leaving. She scuttled down the hall and round the corner, nearly tripping on her skirts.

  The short, thick-set figure of Sir George Baker appeared in the doorway. He walked backwards and bowed on the threshold before closing the door. Royal watched him retreat down the hall until, a few moments later, the Queen and her ladies drifted out of the cabinet.

  Arranging her hair, Royal turned the corner and walked toward them, her head down. When she was level with her mother, she fell into a profound curtsey. She would humble herself – humiliate herself – for news of her dear father.

  ‘Ah, Princess Royal! You may stand. I’ve just been speaking with Baker.’

  Royal raised her eyebrows, her body still sunk on the floor. ‘Indeed? What does he say about Papa?’

  ‘He recommends the Cheltenham waters. We are to leave tomorrow at five.’

  Royal leapt to her feet, concern blaring in her head like a horn. ‘Tomorrow? Is the King fit for such a journey?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He thinks it will do him a world of good. Lord Fauconberg has lent us his house, only a quarter of a mile from the wells.’

  ‘Baker says it is safe to move him?’ Royal asked doubtfully. ‘Surely the movement of a carriage—’

  The Queen tapped her with a folded fan and laughed. ‘Calm down, my dear, the King will be well. He’s in good spirits now and he wants to go.’

  Royal was flabbergasted. How could her mother laugh at such a time? Unless . . . Something was not right. The Queen was too bright, too vivacious. She was hiding something.

  ‘
But—’ Royal started.

  ‘Look, here is a book for you.’ The Queen thrust a small leather volume into her hands. ‘I borrowed it from Miss Burney especially for you. I want you to read this. Stop worrying and concentrate on your studies instead.’

  Royal nodded, disconsolate. Once again she was being treated like a child, kept out of adult secrets. Resentment burned within her.

  ‘The King was exceedingly ill in ’sixty-five,’ the Queen told Lady Harcourt. ‘Worse than this, I think. He was so feverish, and had this shooting pain in his chest that gave him no peace by day or night. He recovered from that quickly enough. This will be nothing, you mark my words.’

  The ladies-in-waiting responded with reassuring chatter and ushered the Queen down the corridor, recounting anecdotes of their own husbands’ ailments. Royal’s eyes followed the swishing trains of their gowns. Of course, none of them spoke about the husbands who had died. No one mentioned Lady Charlotte Finch’s spouse, gripped by mania.

  Royal leant her back against the wall, clenching her book in both hands. She realised she had no trust whatsoever in her mother’s judgement. It was unbearable. She knew more than her mother: about people, about life – about everything. Yet she was subject to the Queen’s will – a will she knew was misguided and wrong. Normally, she could swallow her pride, but where Papa was concerned? Impossible.

  Royal opened the cover of her book and stared at the fly leaf. The Present State of Music in Germany. This was what the Queen gave to Royal – Royal, who hated music. She slammed the book closed with a snap.

  Cheltenham

  Charlotte lay in bed, refusing to open her eyes to the sunlight that danced upon their lids. She was unusually drained. The night had been nothing but six sleepless hours, worrying about the news from France. The printing presses there were frantically busy, running off pamphlets and treaties demanding a new constitution. And if the Paris coffee-houses buzzed with sedition, it wouldn’t be long before London followed suit.

  Outside, there would be crowds of people to wave at, important men to meet, and – most exhausting of all – the constant need to look cheerful. She genuinely didn’t have the energy. Her body felt sapped, her brain sluggish. It was not just France she was worried about – there was George.

  This was not the restful holiday he needed. The English people came to see their King in the fiercest torrents of rain and the cruellest glares of the sun, singing the national anthem with all their might. They came, but they didn’t go away. When the family arrived at Bays Hill Lodge, they could hardly get inside the building for people pressing their noses up against the windows.

  Inside the house, it was barely more comfortable. A cramped warren of rooms, living cheek by jowl with a skeleton staff. And to top it off, Royal was laid up with influenza.

  ‘Your Majesty.’

  Charlotte groaned, pulling herself up in bed. She opened her bleary eyes and paused. Something was wrong about the scene in front of her. For a moment she couldn’t make it out. Then she realised: George was not beside her in bed. It was as if someone had thrown a pale of cold water over the sheets.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty.’ Lady Weymouth stood before her, stark fear on her face. ‘It’s before your usual time – I would not presume to wake you, but the King ordered me. I could not refuse – he said I must fetch you immediately.’

  A thump of panic drove off all Charlotte’s sleepiness. She threw back the covers. ‘Good God! What’s happened?’

  ‘I – I don’t know, Your Majesty.’

  Charlotte tried not to let Lady Weymouth see her apprehension. ‘Very well. Tell the King I will be down immediately.’

  Lady Weymouth dropped a relieved curtsey and shut the door.

  Once Charlotte was alone, fear possessed her. Was he unwell? Was it Royal? She had seen influenza kill before. She ran to the basin and splashed water over her face.

  With a shaky voice, she summoned Miss Burney and demanded to be dressed. The woman was maddeningly slow, fumbling with the hoop and her gloves. Charlotte did not wait for her to fasten the last button – she charged out the room, carrying her hat, strands of hair caught in her necklace.

  She sped down the tiny staircase, holding her skirts up as high as she could, stumbling down every step. When she reached the bottom, she flew through the entrance hall toward the door and bumped straight into the equerry, General Garth.

  ‘Oh, General, forgive me!’

  Charlotte looked at his face and realised her pulse was right to hammer hard in her chest. Large bags sat under his eyes and crusts of sleep formed in the corners of them. He was pale, hastily dressed in his scarlet uniform, and he had not shaved.

  ‘Your Majesty.’

  Charlotte moistened her lips with her tongue. For a moment, she was too afraid to ask him questions. But she could not be cowardly – she could not flinch from this.

  ‘You must tell me: what is the matter? Why has the King called me down so early? Where is he?’

  Garth shifted awkwardly, his boots squeaking on the floor. ‘Don’t worry, Your Majesty. The King is a little – flurried, is all.’

  ‘Flurried?’ she gasped. ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, he ran into the equerries’ room at goodness knows what hour this morning and woke us all with a holler. We scrambled to get up and dressed, but before we could, he was off again. I ran and found him down by the riverbank – he was asking the people to huzzah for Worcester Bridge.’

  They shared a long look. George had always been a little eccentric – it was one of the things Charlotte loved about him. But this felt different somehow – as uncomfortable as a full-throated fire on a midsummer’s day. She frowned.

  ‘I will go and see him – thank you, General.’

  Charlotte didn’t appreciate how early it was until she stepped through the door into chilly air. The sun, although strong, had barely passed the horizon and a ghost of the moon hovered in the sky.

  George appeared at once, running. Thank God, he was safe and whole – but charging at her like a bull. Before she had time to speak, he seized her by the waist and carried her across the street.

  For the first time, it did not feel natural and safe to be in George’s arms. His muscles were taut, his skin unbearably hot. She stuttered a fearful laugh. ‘My love? What are you doing out here? Why are the carriages all getting ready to leave – what has happened?’

  George set her on her feet and smiled. ‘We are going on a day trip!’ he announced. ‘Gloucester. Model jail. Inspect the hospital. Day trip to Gloucester.’

  Charlotte nearly snorted in his face. Gloucester? Had he woken at the crack of dawn and terrified the whole household for a trip to Gloucester? She might have felt relief, but there was something unsettling about George. A fine mist of estrangement sat between them – he had the distant, occupied look of one in a fever.

  ‘I would – yes, I’d like to go to Gloucester,’ she said carefully. ‘But is it not a little early? Do we need to leave right now? I didn’t think Gloucester was so very far away . . . The children will not even be awake.’

  ‘They should be awake!’he gestured with his arms – large, sweeping motions that scared the pigeons roosting on the roof behind him. ‘They’re missing a beautiful day. Wake them up! No idleness here! Wake them up!’

  Charlotte was used to following and trusting George implicitly, but now she looked into his prominent eyes and felt uncertain. Was it really him talking, or was it the illness? His temperature was high and he was confused – he needed a bed and bleeding, not a trip to Gloucester. She took his arm gently within her own. ‘My dear, remember what the doctor said. You must make sure you are careful and rest.’

  He laughed and patted her on the head. ‘Ah, such a good girl. Always so worried. I am resting. I would usually ride thirty miles in a day – this is a rest. A good rest.’

  Charlotte hesitated. She was unaccustomed to saying no to him. But when she thought of dragging poor, snivelling Royal out of bed and putting the d
elirious King into a carriage, she knew in her heart that she could not go through with it. ‘We’ll go later. Rest awhile. There’s no need to set out so early.’

  George clapped his hands together in delight. ‘Yes! Yes there is. We need to get back before Fred comes up from London.’

  It was a lifeline. Fred. Of course! That explained so much. George was always wild with joy to see his favourite son. Charlotte sagged with relief. ‘I did not realise he was joining us. I will look out a good hotel for him.’

  ‘My dear, I’ve already seen to it. I’ve got wood and glass and all sorts of things, and the men are going to build a house on the grounds today.’

  Charlotte’s muscles solidified. She couldn’t have heard right. ‘I’m sorry – did you say build a house? On – on Lord Fauconberg’s grounds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She gaped at him. He had no more reason than a poor man doused with gin. She could not help one final remonstrance, one final appeal to his latent good sense. ‘Will he not mind?’

  George brought his face close to Charlotte’s, as if he was going to kiss her. She shrank back.

  ‘Mind?’ Confusion was branded on his forehead. ‘Of course not. Mind! We’re building a house for Fred. What else would we do?’

  He shot his wife a bemused glance, as if she was going completely mad.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Upper Lodge, Windsor

  Autumn 1788

  Royal stared at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Perhaps if she looked hard enough, she would see her future written there.

  There was so much she could do, so much she could become – if she was only given a chance. Her mother underestimated her – they all did. She was worth more than this. She knew she could be a great ruler in her own right. Not a slave, not a princess at the whim of her parents. She could reign and do it well. The knowledge sizzled inside her until it hurt. Marriage was the only way out. But beside her sisters, she was like a crow in a cage of canaries. She had hoped to grow into her looks by now, to suddenly become as dazzling as Augusta or Mary. But still there was no sign of a bloom in her face; she was born to be plain. Her friends were marrying, pledging their betrothals and giving birth to children. So far, Cheltenham had been the only exciting thing to happen to Royal, and she had caught the flu.