Caroline was drinking spiced chocolate when the pains came; gentle at first, building to a deep-rooted pull. That steely grip on her spine was unmistakable. Carefully, she lowered her cup and dabbed her lips with a napkin. ‘George, I must retire.’
He dropped his cutlery with a clatter. ‘My son?’
She nodded.
‘My son!’
Anne threw her napkin across the table. ‘I don’t want a brother! Do not let him out, Mama.’ Her rosebud lips set. ‘If I have two brothers, I will never be queen.’
‘You are not meant to be a queen, you stupid girl!’ George clipped her round the ear. ‘Make yourself useful – go and fetch Mama’s ladies.’
Anne sped off, her little sisters toddling in her wake.
Gritting her teeth, Caroline wobbled to her feet and walked, unaided, to her chamber. Every time she gave birth, the ferocious pain took her by surprise. She just managed to reach the state bed before black dots drifted into her vision like flies. Baby number five. Surely it would be easier this time?
Although the child was ahead of schedule, most things were prepared. Henrietta fetched the linen and the hot water while Mrs Clayton unlaced Caroline’s day gown and soft stays. As the weight left her taut body, she exhaled in relief. The skin of her belly was stretched tight as a drum. Taking an arm each, Henrietta and Mrs Clayton winched her into bed. Pain bloomed with every movement. Groaning, Caroline swung her legs round and the ladies covered them with crimson damask. Her eyes dwelt upon the gilt and walnut rail a few yards from her feet. Like an animal in a menagerie, she would give birth behind a fence. The whole court would see; gentlemen on one side, ladies on the other. Mortified, Caroline flung herself back on the bolster.
‘Hier gehen wir wieder.’
She started to hear her native German. Looking up, she saw a familiar face: the midwife who had attended the birth of all her children. ‘It’s a relief to see you.’ Caroline tried to smile, but it came out like a grimace.
The Duchess of St Albans pushed to the side of the bed. Peering down her nose at the German midwife, she whispered, ‘Really, your Highness, is this – person – suitable for the task? She does not speak a word of English.’
A spasm of agony racked Caroline. What was the fool talking about? ‘Her language does not signify,’ she panted.
‘How will we understand her directions?’
‘Perhaps I could fetch Sir David Hamilton?’ Miss Meadows suggested.
Lady Cowper clapped her hands. ‘Hamilton! The very best!’
‘A male midwife?’ Caroline cried out in horror. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ They seemed oblivious to her writhing and the liquid leaking from between her legs. The German midwife tried to shove through but the ladies formed an impenetrable barrier.
‘It is usual practice to have a male midwife in England, Your Highness,’ the duchess went on. ‘Don’t you think you had better have Sir David Hamilton?’
‘You do not want to know what I think right now, Your Grace. I will not have a male midwife. I have made my arrangements.’ The pain was excruciating, requiring all her attention.
‘But Your Highness . . .’
Only Henrietta noticed when her waters broke. She moved in with deft hands to change the linen and sponge Caroline’s legs while the others bickered.
‘Go back! Go back, you horrible creature, you’re not wanted here.’
The midwife whimpered in German. ‘Was? Warum moegt Ihr mich nicht?’
‘What is she prattling about, the nasty thing? Tell her only Sir David Hamilton is good enough to attend the princess.’
Driven to the end of her tether, Caroline shrieked. ‘For God’s sake, someone attend to me!’
A stunned silence fell. The ladies were chastened, but still not useful; they simply stared at her, straining against contractions. Henrietta sprang from the room. In a moment, she came back with George and Townshend.
Caroline had never been so pleased to see her husband. His eyes flashed blue like the centre of a flame. ‘What the devil is going on here?’ He pushed into the swarm of ladies with two powerful strides. ‘Let the woman through or I’ll throw you all out of the window!’ They scattered with little shrieks.
Henrietta pulled the German midwife forward. ‘Help her! Helfen Sie ihr!’
Caroline didn’t have the breath to thank her.
Henrietta leaned down close to Caroline’s ear. ‘What do you need, Your Highness? Tell me and I will fetch it.’
Moisture poured down Caroline’s neck. She shook her head, unable to speak.
‘Boxram with wine and sugar,’ Henrietta guessed. ‘And something to bite on?’
Caroline nodded. She was overcome with gratitude for this one, useful servant. It was as she had suspected all along: wages bought a measure of loyalty, but kindness laid claim to part of the soul. A single act of kindness had purchased her Henrietta – a devoted vessel for life.
‘Do not worry, Your Highness. All will be well.’ She brushed her hands, still wet with amniotic fluid, upon her apron. Streaks of blood stood out, vivid against the white. She hesitated. ‘All will be well.’
Henrietta tiptoed back through the bowels of the palace. Twilight leant a sombre hue to the tapestries. Stitched eyes watched her as she moved onward, taking care to shut each door behind her with a soft click. The poor thing. So small, blue and helpless in her hands. All she had done was carry it to the chapel, yet still she felt ashamed; somehow responsible for its lack of breath. Her nerves were in tatters. Even the whisper of her skirts sounded too harsh, too loud. There had been a great cry, then a silence, and it seemed that silence should last forever. Like the hush in a church, it would be disrespectful to disturb it.
When she reached Caroline’s dressing room, George was there. He sat hunched in a chair, wigless, holding his head in his hands. What could she possibly say?
‘Mrs Howard.’
Henrietta dipped a curtsey.
‘How is the princess?’
‘Better,’ she said gently. ‘The shivering fit has stopped. They tell me she is out of danger.’
He nodded. His jaw worked as the Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat.
‘Would you like to come through with me and see her?’
‘No. No.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I would only be in the way.’
Aching with pity, Henrietta perched on the edge of a sofa. ‘The child is your loss too. You also need some comfort.’
‘No. These things are to be expected. We should count ourselves lucky it has not happened before. More children will come.’ It sounded like something learned by rote – not something he felt.
‘All the same, you are allowed to be upset.’
George’s mouth twisted. ‘Am I? You think so?’
She wished she could reach out and take his hand, or rest his head on her shoulder. He was royal but he had a heart, just like anyone else. ‘Who forbids you?’
He shook his head. ‘It is hard to explain, Mrs Howard. All my life, I have been expected to carry on and forget. Forget I have a mother and a son kept from me.’
Henrietta’s interest stirred at the mention of his mother, Sophia Dorothea. That poor, lustful princess, banished for trying to find the happiness her marriage denied her. ‘It is not in human nature to forget such things,’ she prompted.
‘So I discover.’ He drew in a sharp breath. ‘When she – when my mother – was taken away, I cried. I grieved, like any little chap would. But that behaviour was not acceptable. I was mocked and bullied for it.’
Henrietta could almost see the frightened boy, about the age of her Henry, tears streaming down his face. ‘Good Heavens. By whom?’
His eyes finally met hers; dull and bleak. ‘By one who should have known better.’
The King. Georg Ludwig didn’t strike her as a villain, yet some of his actions . . . She knew the turmoil of losing a parent at a young age. It felt like the world was crumbling around you and nothing was certain, nothing safe was left. She sighed. ‘Shall I take a message to the princess, sir?’
He swallowed. ‘Tell her I bless God for preserving my most precious jewel. Tell her the peace of my life depends upon knowing she is in good health.’
And this was the man she had thought crude, consumed by temper.
She wondered what it would be like to live as Caroline for a day, married to a devoted prince. To know her life was worth something to her husband. She rose and drifted to the door. All was deadly silent in Caroline’s chamber. She placed a hand on the cold knob, bracing herself for more heart-wrenching scenes.
‘Mrs Howard.’
She looked back over her shoulder. The muscles of George’s face slackened and she saw the faint gleam of moisture on his cheek. ‘Your Highness?’
‘Thank you.’
Caroline’s chamber was dark and still. The ladies sat mute, faces pinched with shock. Their painted lips drooped like ugly red scars. All the linen and bowls of bloody water had been removed, yet their scent lingered in the air.
Henrietta moved to the bed, hoping to be of assistance. Caroline’s round face had swollen to twice its usual size. The skin was pale as whey, except around the eyes, where it burnt a ferocious scarlet.
‘Mrs Howard.’ Her voice rasped. ‘You have a good heart, but I do not want you to use it now. You are, I think, also a woman of reason?’
‘I hope so, Your Highness.’
‘Then tell me honestly.’ Caroline shut her eyes, the lashes flickering against her livid cheeks. ‘Do not mince words. Was it my fault?’
‘Your fault?’ In her astonishment, she projected the words louder than she intended. The ladies shifted. ‘How could it possibly – ’
Caroline held up a hand. ‘If you listen close enough, you can hear them already. The palace walls are whispering.’ Henrietta strained her good ear, but only silence met her. ‘The King’s set will say I brought it on myself. I should have rested, taken care of my baby instead of gadding about Hampton Court.’
After all Caroline had suffered, did she really blame herself? ‘These whispers are in your head, madam. No real creature could be so unkind, so unjust to you.’
‘But scientifically, Mrs Howard.’ She sounded impatient now. ‘I must know. Did I push myself too hard?’
Mrs Clayton watched them with her basilisk stare.
‘I believe, Your Highness, there are poor women who toil up until the moment their baby drops, yet many of their infants live.’ She thought of Henry; how he refused to be pounded out by Charles’s fists. A tenacious child, even then.
Caroline’s eyes slid from side to side beneath their lids. ‘That is true. That is a point well made. But the midwife – I was wrong there. I should have listened and summoned Hamilton.’
‘You had no reason to doubt the woman who had served you faithfully before.’
‘But her mind was addled. She was afraid the English would hang her. Oh, why did I not call Hamilton?’
‘My dear madam, do not torture yourself. The birth was difficult. No midwife, no matter how qualified, could have brought your son through it alive.’
Fresh tears trickled down Caroline’s face, seeping into the pillow. ‘My son,’ she whispered. ‘My son.’
Henrietta’s mouth filled with platitudes, bland as dry bread. ‘You will have another.’
‘But not that one.’
She hung her head. ‘No, madam. Not that one.’