A pale lemon sun broke over the horizon and winked on damp cobbles. May heat sucked the April moisture from the air as if it had never been there. Before the clocks struck ten, a backdrop of cloudless blue filled the gaps between the buildings. Night soil men shambled away with their carts, replaced by lavender girls and women with baskets of fruit on their heads. Housewives hurried home with pies fresh from the pastry chef. Every window sported either a banner or a candle, ready to illuminate for celebrations in the evening. In just a day, spring had come.
Molly Lepell, Mary Bellenden and Miss Howe trotted along merrily arm-in-arm before Henrietta and her son. The pavement was still muddy from the showers, so they wore pattens to raise their shoes above the dirt. Henrietta was not accustomed to the contraptions. She found it difficult to walk whilst holding onto her skirt and Henry at the same time.
‘Must we visit the shops for ribbon? Surely there are servants who can fetch it?’ he whined.
Molly laughed and fell back to walk alongside them. ‘Yes, little sir, but that’s no fun. How could we stay inside on such a day?’
Henry looked with distaste at the knife grinder and a cluster of women balancing babies on their hips. ‘You need not stay inside. It would be proper for ladies to take the air in the gardens.’
Did he not recall the part of London where he used to live? How could he sneer at these streets, in such good repair? Henrietta shook his shoulder. ‘Come, now. Be of good cheer. This is the King’s birthday and should be celebrated. Tonight will be the most splendid drawing room of the year, and I shall let you pick some new gloves.’
He brightened. ‘Can we afford new gloves, nowadays?’
She blushed, hoping Molly had not heard. With the ringing in her ear, it was hard to tell how loud people were speaking. She kept her voice low. ‘With my salary and the interest from my dowry, I can buy you a few trifles for this special occasion.’
‘I will look like a gentleman! Wait until I show Papa my new things.’
She gripped him tighter than she intended. ‘No. Don’t tell Papa.’
They rounded a corner and faced a crumbling old church, its stone yellow with age. The spire rose up past the trees to wispy clouds above.
Henry cocked his head. ‘Why are they ringing the bells?’
‘That will be for the King’s birthday, of course!’ Molly told him.
Henrietta strained her ears, closing her eyes to listen. Had she really grown so deaf? She struggled with speech, but surely a loud noise like a church bell . . . ? Yes. She found it; a low clang that did not have a rhythm but jerked wildly, until it culminated in one almighty crash.
Her eyes snapped open. Molly had her hands clamped to her ears but Henry was pointing at the church. ‘I saw it! I saw the bell fall from the tower!’
Shrieks rippled out from the church in a frenzied evensong. People skittered away; for a moment it truly seemed they had unleashed the hounds of hell. Henrietta pulled Henry against her but she could not move; her feet were rooted to the spot.
Mary stared, mouth ajar. ‘What in God’s name . . .?’
Suddenly, a bevy of men tumbled out. Sunlight gleamed upon the large, horn-handled knives in their fists. As Henrietta took in the white cockades pinned to their jackets and the turnips, ill balanced upon their hats, she understood: the King’s enemies had cut the bell-ropes. They would not honour his birthday, because they did not recognise him as the true sovereign.
‘We need to leave,’ she said. ‘Now.’
Mary, Molly and Miss Howe turned and tottered back the way they had come. Henrietta could not mince; not with a son to protect. She kicked off her pattens and scooped Henry up. He was heavy, but somehow she found the strength to run.
‘I can walk!’ he cried. ‘Don’t carry me like a baby!’
‘They are bad men who hate the King. They will hurt us.’
Henry craned over her shoulder. ‘They’re smashing windows and pulling down banners. Can’t we stay to watch?’
‘No! It is too dangerous.’ Henrietta weaved around carthorses. The streets were clogged; she was forced to trot along in the kennel, destroying her brocade shoes. Her arms burnt from the weight of her son, but she had to keep going . . .
‘I suppose I won’t get my new gloves now, will I?’
Frost crept down her shoulders. Always focusing on the goods, the money. An eerie echo of Charles. She tightened her grip and made him cry out. ‘No’, she gasped. ‘You won’t get your damned gloves.’
From then on the ladies took the air in the gardens, hiding behind ordered parterres and flanks of spiky yew. Hawthorn in the park beyond clogged the air with its overpowering scent, reminiscent of rotting flesh. Henrietta walked beside Caroline, while the Maids of Honour grouped close together like a fleet of battleships in their wide panniers.
‘Mrs Howard, your husband works in the King’s bedchamber. Has he heard anything about these terrible uprisings?’
Blossom fluttered past them as Henrietta tried to remember what Charles had said. It was seldom she got any sense out of him. ‘He heard the King may call in Dutch troops to protect his rights. His Majesty was alarmed that Oxford turned out in favour of James Stuart.’
Clouds scudded in the brisk wind, shifting shadows over the grass. ‘Yes, I heard that Oxford is full of white roses.’ Caroline tapped her chin. ‘How do we challenge this Stuart flower? What do our supporters wear?’
‘Tin warming pans, madam. To remind all that James Stuart is only a changeling, smuggled into the birthing chamber in a warming pan.’ Actually, Henrietta did not believe a newborn baby would fit into a warming pan, but she was ready to support the theory if it kept Georg Ludwig on the throne.
‘Yet still people flock to this pretender.’ Caroline trailed her fingers along the side of a clipped hedge. ‘Why is that, do you think?’
It was a mixture of Georg Ludwig’s foreign policy and his foreign blood. But how could she explain that to Caroline without offending her? Henrietta looked off into the distance, where the clouds swooped in low. Wispy grey stalactites told her it was raining somewhere close by. ‘His Majesty does not have your tact, madam. He is not – gifted – with people. You knew at once that it would please your subjects to employ English ladies in your household.’
‘Whereas the King favours his loyal Hanoverians.’
‘Precisely.’ Henrietta pressed her lips together, afraid of saying too much. But the words tingled on the edge of her tongue, demanding release. ‘Then there is this business with the Baltic. He has sent English ships on a Hanoverian mission. It does not seem quite . . . sensible.’
Caroline frowned. ‘No. Sometimes I wonder, Mrs Howard, if the King has any sense left at all.’