Bitter wind howled past the windows, splattering raindrops on the glass. Frost turned the contents of chamber pots into yellow ice overnight. St James’s had plenty of chimneys but they smoked, filling the air with a smutty fog.
Caroline flapped a fan before her face to dispel the choking fumes as she and George paced round the ineptly named Paradise Court. The Maids of Honour ran behind in high spirits. She had promised them a game of Blind Man’s Buff – the perfect opportunity for flirtation. They whispered and twittered at her back, anticipating stolen caresses and sneaky kisses.
George squeezed her hand. ‘What will you say to him?’
‘I will think of something. First, I need to establish if it is true.’
Colour flooded his cheeks. ‘It is true,’ he insisted. ‘I told you, I had it from Melusine herself.’
She caressed his palm with her thumb. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, I do not doubt you. I just struggle to believe anyone could be so foolish.’
‘Even my father?’
Caroline tried to laugh, but the smoke made her cough.
George’s brows knitted in concern. ‘You are sure you don’t want me to come with you?’
‘No.’ His presence would only raise the King’s hackles. She needed Georg Ludwig soft and malleable. ‘You start the game. You need to be seen in the midst of them. You’ll keep the English on our side, even if the King cannot.’
‘I do nothing but praise the English,’ he complained. ‘I tell them they are the handsomest, best, kindest people in the world.’
‘Keep doing it. You cannot flatter them enough.’
She dropped her husband a meek curtsey, belied by the twinkle in her eyes. She could sense he would come to her bed tonight. Her thighs tensed deliciously at the thought. But first, there was this ordeal to get through.
‘Until later, my dear.’ Caroline waved away the ladies, who moved to follow her. ‘Stay with the prince. Mrs Howard, be so kind as to teach him the game.’
Henrietta glowed. Caroline watched her slot beside George before she turned and walked away. The giggles and whispers disintegrated as she wound her way toward the King’s inner sanctum. Her mules clacked against the floor. Outside, the wind screamed like a soul in torment. Caroline peered through the misty windows as she walked, seeing nothing but a swirl of hail. The Thames would be frozen solid.
Guards stood stiff as pike-staffs, staring blindly ahead, and let her pass. But as she neared the King’s closet, one of his gentlemen scurried up to her.
‘Your Royal Highness. A pleasure.’
‘Is the King with a minister?’
‘I – I do not believe so, Your Highness. Allow me to check if he is receiving.’
She put on her haughtiest tone. ‘He will see me.’
‘Of course, but allow me – ’
‘I will not be turned away.’
The gentleman faltered. Caroline could see the scales in his mind, weighing her and Georg Ludwig against one another. She fixed her eyes on his face until he buckled. ‘Please, come through.’
Georg Ludwig’s closet was a haven of tranquillity. A pile of documents sat on his desk, illuminated by the clear light of beeswax candles. An apple log crackled softly in the grate. Peering down the end of his nose, the King seized sheet after sheet of paper, signed his name and designated them to a fresh stack.
‘Your Majesty.’
He looked up. ‘Daughter. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ He darted a hard glance at the hapless Gentleman of the Presence, who ducked out the door and shut it behind him.
‘Palace walls speak. They have whispered to me.’
‘About what?’
She did not answer him straight away. Curiosity got the better of her. Upside-down, she tried to decipher the documents on his desk, but they were poorly scribed.
‘Caroline?’
‘Do you want me to translate them for you?’ she offered. ‘You really should try to understand them before you sign them.’
His mouth clamped shut like a steel trap. His poor English was a sore subject.
‘You know what people say,’ she continued. ‘They think the Ministry does everything and you nothing.’
Georg Ludwig snorted. ‘And that is all the thanks I get for the pains I take!’
Caroline wished she had held her tongue. Putting him in a bad mood was the last thing she needed. ‘Forgive me. I only meant to help.’
‘You may help by keeping your prying nose out of it. Now, why are you here?’ He leaned back in his chair and assessed her.
Caroline forced her lips into the semblance of a smile. ‘People – foolish people – say that you plan to return to Hanover.’
‘And so?’
‘Such rumours injure your reputation. The English begin to say you do not like their country, that you are Hanoverian through and through. I want your direct authority to contradict them.’
Georg Ludwig ran a hand down the length of his face. ‘You can tell them I do not hate England. I would have hoped you could do that without asking me first. But you must stay silent regarding Hanover. I will visit Herrenhausen in the summer.’
The sheer idiocy of his scheme took her breath away. At a time when disaffected subjects were rising in the north, he planned to slip away on a holiday? ‘You cannot mean it.’
‘I do.’
Discretion abandoned her. Caroline planted both palms on the desk with a bang and leant forward. ‘Are you mad? To leave now! The Pretender has set sail!’
He turned his nose up at the mention of Queen Anne’s brother. ‘My ships are searching for him now. There is nothing to fear. We defeated the rebels at Preston and Sheriffmuir. I have men I can trust.’
But were there enough to hold firm? The coalition of Jacobites in France and Scotland left England skewered between them like a hunk of meat.
‘You cannot just abandon the country! Do you not see that you are giving James Stuart the perfect opportunity to win your people over?’
Georg Ludwig made a steeple of his hands. ‘We are talking of summer. It is barely Christmas. The Pretender will be back in France with his tail between his legs long before I go.’ His insipid calm made Caroline’s blood boil. This was the future of their house they were talking about – George’s throne, Frederick’s throne. Sophia’s legacy. It was not a thing to toy with.
‘Still, I do not consider it wise – ’
‘You should not consider it at all.’ He stood suddenly. ‘It is not your concern. You are a woman and you are not on the throne.’
Her hands trembled with rage, so she balled them into fists. ‘While you are in Hanover – my Fred – ’
‘I daresay I will call on little Fretzchen, yes.’
Her mouth quivered. ‘And bring him back?’
‘Certainly not.’ He threw his arms out in exasperation. ‘You would have me cast everything on England, would you not? You should know the value of making a hedge when you bet. I cannot just desert my people in Hanover.’
So her little boy was nothing but a piece on a chessboard, placed strategically in case another fell. Caroline’s stays pressed hard against her heaving chest. ‘I will not argue with you about this. You had my thoughts when you made me leave Fred behind. They are unchanged. But if you must go, will you at least take a message? A present? Something to let him know I am thinking of him?’
Georg Ludwig bent over his papers, shuffling them into neat piles. She could not see his face. ‘I have done speaking with you,’ he declared. ‘I have business to attend to.’
Like magic, the door creaked open. Empty rooms yawned before her. Caroline looked back at her father-in-law, but all he revealed was the powdered top of his periwig.
‘You will leave me. Now.’
Blinded by tears and frustration, she pushed past the guards and sped away.
A sickly dawn seeped through the window and puddled on the floor. Henrietta had not slept for more than an hour. Cold crept into her very marrow, despite Charles’s hot body beside her. But it wasn’t her numb toes or chattering teeth that kept her awake: it was Henry. Her senses stretched, trying to hear the sounds she had loved so well before her ear was injured; a turn of his head on the pillow, his gently rasping breath, a murmur in his dream. It was impossible to consider being wrenched from him again – but that was what Charles proposed.
She shifted her feet, seeking relief from the chilblains erupting on her skin. The bed creaked. She turned and felt a thud of horror as her heel connected with the warmth of Charles’s flesh.
He woke with a jolt. ‘Huh?’ She squeezed her eyes shut, praying he would doze off again. But Charles lashed his arms out. ‘Ugh. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’
He grunted and massaged his temples. ‘Damn it, I can’t. What time is it?’
‘It wants an hour before we rise.’
Charles groaned.
Henrietta turned to look at him. Suddenly, the question that had plagued her all night slipped out. ‘Why, Charles? Why take Henry with you?’
It took a moment for his sleep-dazed faculties to whirr into motion. ‘What now?’
She clasped the cuff of his nightshirt with supplicating fingers. ‘Do not take him to Hanover when you follow the King in summer. Leave him here.’
‘Blast your eyes woman! Didn’t I tell you last night? He’s spent enough years tied to your apron strings. High time he learned how to be a man.’
But not a man like you. ‘I do not. . .’ She stopped on the verge of blurting out criticism. ‘I think – ’
‘Nobody cares what you think, Hetty. The boy wants to go and be with men. There’s an end of it.’
Henrietta threw off the blankets and flung herself out of bed. Her breath was mist in the bitter air. She went to the washstand, but there was no usable water – her ewer had lumps of ice bobbing on the surface. Sighing, she heaved her day gown over her shift and tied an apron around her waist. With an income of her own, she had a modest wardrobe now. She was always quick to invest the money in tangible items before Charles could gamble it away.
Her chestnut hair fell in ringlets to the base of her neck. As she swept it up and secured it with a ribbon, she thought that she heard a rumble in the corridor. She tilted her head, trying to make out the sound with her good ear.
Henry stirred. ‘Mama? What is it?’
She petted his tousled head. ‘I am not sure, my sweet. I will go and see.’
Taking a rush-light, Henrietta shuffled into the gloomy passage. No one was about, yet voices echoed somewhere deep within the labyrinth. Shielding the light with her hand, she negotiated her way past an abandoned mop and bucket, someone’s lost shoe and an empty bottle. Her skirts whispered against the wall. The palace was unearthly at this hour, its eeriness heightened by rolling grey mist outside the windows.
As she turned the corner, her heart stopped. A white shape floated into view, gliding straight toward her. Frozen to the spot, she gasped, extinguishing her rush-light.
‘Mrs Howard!’ She shrieked as someone grabbed her arm. ‘Good Lord! What’s the matter with you? Did you not hear me calling?’
Henrietta blinked. As her terror subsided, images slid into place. The white shape was no ghost – merely a linen nightgown with an untied robe flying around it. ‘Mary! Mary Bellenden. You startled me. I did not hear you. I – ’
Mary pressed her fingers to Henrietta’s lips. ‘Hush, it doesn’t matter. I came to get you as soon as I found out. What do you think? We are all terribly frightened.’
Henrietta could not respond to such a strange question. Absent-mindedly, she caught up the sides of Mary’s robe and secured them with the tapes.
Mary laughed, stretching her pretty neck. ‘Oh, Mrs Howard, you are priceless. The Pretender lands at Peterhead and all you can worry about is my modesty!’
Henrietta’s hands dropped. The news fizzled inside her for a moment, too hot to grasp. ‘Queen Anne’s brother is here? In England?’
‘In Scotland! God bless you, did you not know already? Everyone is up and talking about it.’ She seized Henrietta’s sleeve and pulled her back through the corridors. ‘Ormonde and Bolingbroke are fled to France, and my Lord Oxford will go to the Tower! The Tories are demolished – every one of them suspected of being a closet Jacobite!’
Henrietta’s thoughts hummed. From what she had heard, James Stuart was not a conciliating man. He believed in his divine right and his religion. If he got his throne back, he would forbid Protestant worship in his country. She swallowed on a dry throat. ‘Mary . . . What if the Pretender has friends in England? What if he succeeds? What will happen to us?’
Mary stopped walking. ‘I don’t know.’ Looking at Henrietta, she shivered. Her face lost its usual composure. ‘I really do not know.’
Caroline watched from a raised dais as the weak horses stumbled past. Soldiers dragged at their bridles, pulling them and their riders through the streets toward the Tower. Defeated rebel leaders sat slumped in the saddles, their hands bound. Musket smoke stained their wasted faces, but their eyes were alive with hate.
For all her differences with Georg Ludwig, she had to admire his skill in quashing this rebellion. No panic had disturbed his cool demeanour, not when James Stuart entered Dundee or when he built a court at Perth. The Pretender’s army had been woefully mismanaged. After defeats in the north of England, most supporters melted away like Highland mist. By the time the Duke of Argyll reached Perth to attack him, the Pretender had fled back to France like a whipped cur, leaving these unfortunate rebels to reap what he had sown.
Jeers rang through the crowd as soldiers led the defeated men past. A common man ran out before the procession, waving a mocking warming pan. One of the rebels spat at him.
Suddenly Caroline was glad for the black velvet mask that shielded her face. ‘How many will die?’ she whispered.
George’s jaw set. ‘A few dozen officers. Only six rebel peers will lose their heads.’
Bubbles rose up inside her belly. She felt nauseous. Either it was the idea of blood, or her suspicions were correct: she was with child again. She did not like to think of bringing a little one into such a violent world. ‘The King has elected to be merciful?’
George eyed the nervous horses clopping by. Sweat patched their saddlecloths. ‘He has been merciful to these traitors. But what about my friend Argyll? He should have been made Commander in Chief after his heroic actions. But the King honours Lord Cadogan instead!’
She pursed her lips. ‘Was Argyll not vigilant? Did he not take enough prisoners?’
‘Pah! He is Scottish. It’s only natural he should be a little tender of capturing his own people. No, Argyll’s only crime is being my Groom of the Stole. This is a slight on me.’
She sighed. Whatever the King did, George would find a way to make it about himself. ‘I am not feeling well. Would you mind if I sat in the carriage?’
George scoffed. ‘Are you such an old girl? You only have to stand, there is nothing trying in that! Watch them to the end.’ He looked at her and his expression changed. ‘Unless . . . Is it . . .?’
‘A child. I think so.’ She pressed his hand. ‘I must go and rest. It could be a son for us.’
A grin broke through his stormy countenance. ‘Of course.’
With her guards, Caroline pushed through the crowd. Hundreds of filthy faces swarmed around her; the toothless, the whores out for a cheap show. Her nausea swelled. She stumbled over her skirts. Her hoop felt as though it was weighted with lead.
‘Your Highness!’
She looked down and started in shock. A dishevelled woman knelt on her train, grasping at her ermine cape with bony hands. She was dressed entirely in black.
‘A petition! Your Royal Highness! A petition for my husband.’
Caroline waved the guards off. The woman was hysterical – no danger to anyone but herself.
‘My husband,’ the woman repeated. ‘They are to kill my husband!’ Her wet mouth gaped in an expression like a scream. ‘Please, you must stop it!’
She brandished a piece of torn paper. Caroline took it and glanced at the writing. Swirling words throbbed off the page to the beat of a military drum. Execution. She imagined a scaffold covered in black and an axe, winking in the cold February light. Here were the human faces behind the traitors; the lives smashed apart. It was not so easy to kill after looking into their empty eyes. Why should this woman suffer for her husband’s politics? A turn of the dice, a twist of fate and it could be Caroline in her place.
She drew herself up. Grief and rage would not make the people less lethal. It was only kindness that could break the lion’s tooth. ‘The King will read your petition. I will put it into his hands myself.’
The woman seized the hem of Caroline’s gown. Lifting it from the street, she kissed the material, caring nothing for the mud. ‘God bless you, madam!’
Despite her kind words, Caroline shivered. The ermine edging her cloak trailed in a puddle of icy water. That snowy white fur was the mark of royalty, of Georg Ludwig’s authority. But soon it would be speckled with more than stray black dots. Come execution day, it would be stained with blood.