Every jolt of the wheels rattled Henrietta’s bones. The passengers’ rancid breath and body odour made her queasy. A suspicious man wearing a muffler was squashed beside her and dug his elbows into her ribs at each turn. From across the coach, an old lady with a chicken on her lap regarded her with a steady gaze.
Henrietta shrank within herself. Now she was finally treading the path she had planned for so long – and she was afraid. It did not feel like her dreams of escape – there was no elation, no soaring sense of freedom. She was in a trance, watching from afar as some other Henrietta crossed the waves and travelled over the Continent.
She stared at the straw-littered floor of the coach. She missed Henry’s presence like a limb. He had been the spur to her side, forcing her to press on. Without him she lost focus. At least Charles’s brother would care for him well. It would be a treat for the boy to see how the upper class lived – how he should have lived.
In the corner, two men were arguing. Henrietta focused on their lips, trying to make out their harsh, grating words. Her German was good, but amongst these native speakers she felt like a novice. There was a speed, a lilt to their language that no classroom could teach.
At least with correspondence she would be safe. With her education, she could easily compose a letter to the Dowager Electress Sophia at the palace of Herrenhausen and ask for an audience. And yet . . . Cramping anxiety seized her every time she considered setting pen to paper. Addressing the next Queen of England – the woman who held all of her hopes in the palm of her hand. How on earth would she begin? There were no letters, no lines and dots of ink sufficient to convey her desperation. What if she failed?
It occurred to her for the first time that she had gambled everything on one toss of the dice. Until now, she had only experienced the wild rapture that such a risk brings. But as she looked on her fellow passengers and their scowling faces, she realised she could lose. Without royal favour, she wouldn’t have enough money for the journey home. She could be stuck here, among strangers, while Henry . . .
A snort drew her eyes to the corner of the coach. Charles slumped against the battered upholstery, a thread of drool hanging from his lip. Whatever foreign liquors he had imbibed, they kept him comatose. That was something to be thankful for, at least.
The woman holding a chicken exchanged a flurry of words with a child next to her. Her plump hand pointed to the window. ‘Herrenhausen.’
Henrietta could not help it; she pushed past the muffled man and strained to see out of the window. Frantically, she spat on her handkerchief and scrubbed the smeared glass. Images rose up from the grimy mist. Ornate hedges, stretches of water, gates with golden fretwork. Marble statues peered down from plinths, assessing the flowers below. Green. So much greenery. Her hand, clutching the stained handkerchief, fell limp at her side. The gardens expanded, filling the window. Planted in careful patterns, the bushes twisted and turned until their foliage transformed into a living damask. Here and there, a jet of water shot up from the fountains and sparkled in the sunlight. Henrietta’s gaze travelled down an avenue of limes to where the palace sprawled in proud white stone. She was transfixed. It was unlike anything she had seen before – more elegant than the crumbling St James’s Palace in London. Two storeys of frescoes and glittering windows. She drew a breath, blinked – and it was gone.
She fell back into her seat. It was as if she had blown out a lamp. The coach rumbled on, looking darker and dirtier than ever. The chicken lifted its tail and messed on the old woman’s lap. She didn’t even flinch.
Henrietta glanced at her own travelling dress. Her train carried a cargo of straw. Her fingernails were black-tipped and chewed to the quick. What had she been thinking? They would never accept her in a place like Herrenhausen. She felt her unworthiness creeping like a stain over her flesh.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Charles’s voice startled her. He was worse for wear after his nap, with bloodshot, bleary eyes.
‘I – I saw the palace.’
‘And?’
‘It was beautiful.’ The skin on her forehead tightened with unbearable pressure. ‘Just – beautiful.’
‘Good. The Elector must be thick in the pocket.’ His nose wrinkled as he looked her up and down. ‘Better clean yourself up before you go there. Can’t have you disgracing me.’
She was almost sick with shame. She wanted to weep and tell him she could not go; that she had been wrong with her wild dreams.
‘Hetty?’
Henrietta raised her eyes to his face. Just around the mouth, she saw a whisper of Henry creeping through. ‘Yes?’
‘I only agreed to this hare-brained scheme because the duns were closing in. You sold everything without my leave. Remember?’ Charles placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.
‘Yes, Charles. I – ’
‘You promised me this would be the making of us. A palace, an apartment, wine. You promised.’ He leant close enough for her to see the flecks of stubble on his cheeks. The mere scent of him made her shudder, bound up as it was with the memory of pain. ‘And you know what happens to women who break their promises. Don’t you?’
Henrietta plunged her fingers into the cheap pomade and squinted. The mirror was filthy, speckling her face. She tried her best to paste her poor, cropped hair into some semblance of a style and thanked God for the mobcap and hat that hid the worst of it.
‘Eighteen guineas,’ Charles scoffed from the sofa. ‘It wasn’t worth that much. What else did you do to make that wigmaker pay up?’
Henrietta nipped her bottom lip. ‘There was a time when you thought my hair lovely enough.’
He had been handsome back then. But to look at him now, sprawled on the cushions like a marionette with its strings cut, she would never have believed it. His lips were loose and wet from too much drink, his skin mottled. The dashing young soldier she married had disappeared; Charles dropped the act as soon as the church bells clanged to a halt. ‘Why do you not dress for court?’
Charles snorted. ‘I’m not going. I have business to attend to.’
Blood pulsed in her head. She heard it like a drum, pounding out her wrongs. The Dowager Electress Sophia had graciously invited them both to wait upon her. Failure to attend would be an insult. ‘Please, Charles. Please.’ Desperation made her voice jagged. ‘Why stay here? You can’t visit the tavern or the whore house. If you become a topic of gossip in Hanover, all our chances are ruined.’
She ducked as he flung a cushion at her. It bounced off the wall and skidded across the floor. ‘Damn your impudence!’
‘But – without you, how can I possibly – ’
‘You want me to work for the next Queen of England?’ he roared. ‘Well go and get me a place!’
‘I need you with me! Please, Charles. If you ever cared for me, even a little bit, please do this one thing. It is all I will ever ask of you.’ He pouted. ‘Charles!’ She fell on her knees before him and searched his red face. Surely there was some sense, some shred of decency inside? ‘I beg of you! What do you think will happen if we don’t get into court? We sold everything. We will be ruined. Out on the street. Starving.’
He pushed away her imploring fingers. ‘Pull yourself together, woman. I’m sure Edward – ’
‘We have exhausted your brother’s hospitality!’ Henrietta wailed. ‘It’s a miracle he agreed to look after Henry. He threw us out once before when you didn’t pay the rent! Or have you forgotten that, in your drunken stupor?’ His blow was instant, pushing her back across the room and driving her teeth into her cheek. Black shapes, like smuts from a fire, danced before her eyes. Henrietta raised a hand to her ringing ear. Her fingers came back spotted with blood.
‘I would have your entire dowry at my disposal, if it wasn’t for your meddling uncle and brother,’ Charles snarled. ‘It’s your fault we are poor. You find the remedy.’
Wobbling, Henrietta grasped the bureau and dragged herself to her feet. Without another word, she picked up her hat and left the room.
She had forgotten the feel of a carpet; how it made her shoes sink, the gentle pad and whisper as she glided over it. She found she could not walk properly.
Her unimpressive dress drew strange looks from the Usher of the Presence who guided her, and the guards who raised their halberds to let her through. She stared at her feet and focused on moving them forward. She couldn’t risk quailing beneath the hostile glances, or gasping at the flock wallpaper and intricate gilding. She had to look like she belonged here. Portraits of long-dead dukes sneered down at her, their oily eyes disdainful. She was not good enough. Her stomacher was too plain, her shift too coarse and devoid of frills. The steel improvers that held out her skirts were small and drooping. Of all the jewellery a lady could possess, she had only her wedding ring left – and God knew that was more of a shackle than an ornament.
The usher led her through a burnished door into a closet. Sofas of duck-egg blue stood beside the wall, while courtiers lounged against their golden frames. Ornate mirrors reflected shelves of books. The veined marble fireplace, empty in the mild weather, bore the largest carriage-clock Henrietta had ever seen upon its mantelpiece. Each tick echoed in the hollow grate.
‘Wait here.’ Her guide vanished, leaving only the faintest trace of sandalwood cologne behind him.
She stood, shipwrecked in the centre of the rug. Two stout female courtiers gawped at her. They had gold and silver thread in their clothing, fine pocket-watches and exquisite lace. Their disdainful gaze slithered over her, taking in the splashes of mud on her shoes and the dull paste buckles. Little pins of mortification pricked under her skin and behind her eyes. Bowing her face beneath the brim of her hat, she stumbled over to a sofa and sat down. The upholstery sighed.
‘New to court?’
She jumped. A man with small features and arching, intelligent eyebrows sat beside her. His dress was smart but unadorned. There were no black patches on his face, no diamond pins in his jacket.
‘I am sorry.’ He put out a hand, looking abashed. He spoke the court language of French with an English accent. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘No, no, it was my fault. I was . . . somewhere else.’
He smiled. ‘I cannot blame you. Dreadfully dull, all this waiting. Still, it builds character.’
‘Have you been here long?’
He laughed. ‘Do you mean today, or in general? The answer to both questions is pretty much the same. I have been here for ages. If you cannot buy yourself a place at court, you have to pay for it another way. With your time.’
‘But you have met the Electress Sophia, at least?’
‘Dowager Electress,’ the man corrected. ‘Sophia still thinks she rules the roost, but in fact it’s her son, Georg Ludwig.’
Henrietta winced. She had known that. But Sophia was more important in Britain, since she was the next heir to the throne. Her son was still in the shadows. ‘The Elector, Georg Ludwig – he has a wife?’
The man sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. He glanced around before stealing closer. ‘You must not mention her,’ he whispered. ‘Caught in adultery – banished to a castle in Celle.’
The scandal sizzled in Henrietta’s ear. ‘I thank you for the hint,’ she said. ‘I would have made a blunder there.’
‘Not at all.’ The man offered a hand. ‘John Gay. If I can be of any further assistance, do let me know.’
She shook his hand quickly. ‘Henrietta Howard.’
‘Ah, Howard! That’s an ancient English name. Sophia will love you. She is very proud of her English heritage. Wants people to call her the Princess of Wales! But if you cannot gain a place with Sophia, you should try for the Princess Caroline. She is an excellent woman.’
‘Princess Caroline? Is she Georg Ludwig’s daughter?’
‘Daughter-in-law,’ he amended. ‘Married to Georg Ludwig’s son, Prince George.’
Her head reeled. It was too much to take in at once. She had only considered courting Sophia, not a son, grandson and granddaughter-in-law. But she would have to commit the relationships to memory fast . . .
‘The Honourable Mr and Mrs Howard.’
Henrietta spun around. A powdered gentleman with a bored expression on his face held the door open. She fumbled to shake out her skirts and stand. ‘Just – just Mrs Howard, actually.’ Once again, she felt critical eyes upon her. What a sight she must look, poorly dressed and unaccompanied.
‘Very well, just Mrs Howard. The Dowager Electress has asked for you.’
Henrietta held her breath. Her feet wobbled on her heels as she stepped forward. She had taken no leave of Mr Gay, but she couldn’t look back over her shoulder now. Her vision had become a tunnel. The threshold was the only thing that existed. Shaking, she followed the page and passed through the doorway, into the warm embrace of a sunlit room. A hush fell at the sound of her footsteps. The gentle hum of an orchestra, which had been playing when she entered, faded away. She focused straight ahead, trying to stop her legs from shaking. A great chair stood by the window with a thin figure hunched against the upholstery. Sophia – it had to be. Henrietta’s insides turned to liquid.
‘Come.’
As she moved forward, rays of sunlight bounced off the glass, dazzling her. She could not squint or turn her face to the side; she could only stumble blindly on into the light, toward the woman who would decide her fate. She curtsied low, the scent of herbs rising to greet her from the floor.
‘Mrs Howard.’ The voice was warm and caressing, like a summer breeze. ‘We have been waiting to meet you.’