A buzz ran around the palace. Caroline and George stumbled out of their rooms, still dazed from their afternoon nap. Crowds thronged the guard chamber, a mass of powdered curls and bobbing caps. Their excited whispers hissed against Caroline’s ears but she could not make out a word. No one turned when she entered the room. Whatever the gossip was, it was all-absorbing. She looked for Mrs Howard or Mrs Clayton, but the people seemed to merge beneath the swords and shields hanging on the walls.
‘If I am permitted, Your Royal Highness, I will tell you what the fuss is about.’
She jumped round. The Duke of Newcastle’s hooked nose was poking an inch away from her cheek. She only hesitated for a moment. Annoying as she found the man, she needed information. ‘You are permitted. Speak quickly.’
‘The King has dismissed Lord Townshend.’
‘What?’ The word exploded from George.
‘Dismissed him, and quite rightly too. He was speaking disrespectfully against the coalition with Denmark.’
Caroline winced. George himself had been railing against the same policy. Townshend was George’s friend; he would not tolerate Newcastle’s criticism of him. ‘Hold your tongue, Your Grace,’ she hissed. ‘You do not know what you are speaking of. The coalition may help Hanover, but it is dragging the British into an expensive war they do not want.’
Newcastle stiffened. ‘Do not presume to tell me, madam. I am privy to the King’s councils, I understand these things better than a lady could ever – ’
George cut him off. ‘First Argyll, now this. It is all a slight against me. A slight for speaking against his damned treaties.’ A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Caroline knew better than to touch him. Keeping her voice cool and soft, she said, ‘He will have his little revenge, George. Our popularity in the summer was more than he could withstand. The best retaliations he can come up with are these petty tricks. It pleases him to think they vex us. Do not give him the satisfaction.’
‘I wish he would give me satisfaction!’ Spittle flew from his mouth as he hurled his wig at the door. ‘If he was any other man, I’d take him out on the heath with a brace of pistols and have done with him.’
Heads turned. The buzz of conversation wavered until finally it dried into a pit of silence. Everyone watched them.
Quickly, Caroline took George’s arm and steered him from the room. ‘Hush now,’ she whispered as she hurried him along the corridors back toward their bedchamber. ‘It is futile to think of duels and pistols. The King does not have your spirit.’ They turned a corner. ‘He is old and his time is short. Your day will dawn. He hates the very thought of it. You are a living reminder that one day, he must die.’
‘I wish he would do it soon.’
‘And he will. All in good time.’
They reached their chamber door. George rested with one hand on the wood. ‘I worry, Caroline,’ he confessed. ‘I worry about you and the children.’
She planted a kiss on his burning forehead. ‘Why, dearest?’
‘Because he takes the things I love. First Mama. Then Fred. Who next?’
Hampton Court
‘God damn them, what’s keeping them so long?’ Charles’s voice brayed in Henrietta’s good ear.
She dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief. ‘He is the King. He makes his own time.’
Footsteps beat on the path. The royal procession marched toward them, headed by the Yeoman of the Guard. Behind them came the dukes with their white wands of office, then the sergeants at arms, maces in hand. Henrietta took a step back as they passed. The sword of state sailed before her eyes, its massive golden hilt refracting shards of light across the courtyard into the fountain. Jewels nestled around the blade; venomous-looking emeralds and rubies like globs of blood. Knowing the King would follow the sword, she scrunched into a curtsey, cramped against the other ladies’ swaying panniers.
Georg Ludwig swanned by, grinning and nodding to his subjects. Gone was his usual morose face, the creased brow. Henrietta sensed the change was a deliberate one. Ever since the King heard of Caroline and George’s fine summer at Hampton Court, he had tried to emulate them.
After His Majesty, the little princesses scuttled along with their parents bringing up the rear. Caroline, magnificent in pink brocade, clamped a palm either side of her belly. Henrietta sighed. It did not help her to see Caroline breeding again so quickly after her disappointment. Why should one woman have so much love, whilst Henrietta had none?
With her various duties, she hardly saw Henry, but when she did, he treated her with polite detachment. All his laughs and smiles were reserved for Charles. Father and son had forged a bond in Hanover and it did not weaken with the passing of time. Henrietta tried to join in with them, but she always missed the joke.
A sea of bodies heaved and pushed her forward into the chapel. Swept up in the crowd, she was separated from Charles and fell into a pew next to Molly Lepell. Her friend’s painted lips twitched. ‘Well, well. Bless me, what an excellent view we have.’
The chapel was a masterpiece of deep blue and gold. A thousand painted stars studded the azure ceiling, winking at Henrietta as she surveyed the arches and glittering pendants. Gilt made a hazy sheen in the wooden choir. ‘Yes. The architecture is magnificent.’
Molly erupted into giggles and elbowed her. ‘La! You teasing thing. I meant that view.’ She nodded to where the gentlemen of the court sat, and tugged down on her bodice.
‘Really! Molly!’
A hint of red grazed Molly’s cheekbones. ‘Well! It doesn’t hurt, does it? My curves have grown mightily since last year, it would be a shame not to show them off.’
A slim young man watched them, one dainty leg crossed over the other. His blue suit reflected the colour of his large eyes, which dominated a face with features delicate as porcelain.
‘If you are trying to catch Mr Hervey’s attention, Molly, I think you have succeeded.’
The strawberry stain spread down Molly’s cheeks to her neck. ‘Who said I cared a fig about him?’
Mary Bellenden laughed. ‘Yes, why stop there? Mr Hervey is not worth a groat when the Prince of Wales is looking for a mistress!’
‘What – what did you say?’
Suddenly the organ blared. Molly pressed her lips close to Henrietta’s ear. ‘A mistress. Prince George wants one. Mary jokes about it, but she would never take him.’
Her thoughts whirled. Surely there was some mistake? ‘But he loves his wife.’
Molly looked at her like she had sprouted an extra head. ‘Lord, when did that ever stop a man? He’s had mistresses before. In Hanover.’
‘And the princess knows?’
‘Of course! It does not bother her.’
She could not believe it. She had watched George adore Caroline for years. A mistress did not fit into that relationship – there was no space for her. ‘I do not understand. Why now?’
Molly clicked her tongue in irritation. She had been bestowing her smile on a dark young gentleman. ‘Isn’t it obvious? His wife is swelling with child. She is being extra careful this time. She will not let him near her until it is born.’
Henrietta folded her hands on her lap and stared down at them. Now two women would get soft looks from those china-blue eyes, sweet words and princely devotion. There would be two women for her to envy until it hurt.
Henrietta turned before the looking glass, making her peach skirts flare. Stripes of shimmering silver trimmed the hem of her masquerade gown. She twisted this way and that, watching the iridescent colours chase across her tissue apron. Back in the grime of Beak Street, she would have swooned to see a gown like this.
She pulled the laces of her silver bodice a little looser and poked another pin into the hat positioned on the side of her head, folded back to reveal a spray of flowers in her chestnut hair.
‘Are you a shepherdess, Mother?’ Henry asked, watching her every move.
‘Yes.’ She passed to the sideboard and picked up a black eye-mask, along with the letter hidden beneath it. ‘Do you think I will do?’
He nodded. ‘Very nice indeed.’
She beamed at him. That simple praise was the best she could expect from a ten-year-old boy.
The masquerade would start soon. She should not tarry, but she wanted to read the letter from her brother again. He was to be married, this very year. It seemed incredible that he had grown up so fast. She still remembered him stuttering his first words.
I wish you could join us for the ceremony Hetty, but I am sure that is impossible. Even if your royal mistress granted you permission, Charles would not let you travel without him. Will you think me very selfish if I tell you I cannot bear to have him there? He is still bitter he cannot touch your marriage portion, and he blames me for that. I would not want my bride exposed to unpleasant scenes.
Thoughtfully, she slipped on her peach and silver shoes. She was not offended by John’s remarks; she too would avoid Charles, given the chance. But it seemed very hard that she was never to see her brother again because she was shackled to a beast. She had married young, hoping a connection with an Earl’s son would rebuild the family fortune. How foolish she had been.
‘What’s Papa going as?’
She started – she had almost forgotten Henry was there. ‘I do not know, love. He has not told me.’ The clock chimed. She snapped on her mask, pushed the letter into her bosom and dashed to kiss Henry’s cheek. ‘I have to run. Sleep tight.’ She hesitated, looking at his small, fragile limbs. Maternal worry never drained away, no matter how old he grew. ‘It will be late before I’m back. Are you sure you will be all right?’
‘What about Papa? Are you not waiting for him?’
She shrugged, sleeves glimmering like moonlight. ‘He is not ready.’
‘You should wait.’
Henrietta ruffled his hair, scattering it over his disapproving face. ‘We are late. At least if I go now, we will not get into trouble.’
Henry groaned and put up his hands to straighten his curls. ‘He will not like you dashing off, Mother. You know that, don’t you?’
She tried to ignore the sudden constriction of her throat. ‘Nonsense. A King overrules a husband. Now be a good boy. I will see you later.’
Blowing him another kiss, she pattered out in her heels. The last thing she saw before she closed the door behind her was Henry, pensively shaking his head.
Heat embraced her the moment she entered the gallery. A thousand characters flashed before her eyes; a jester, a highwayman, a sea-goddess. She peered through the small holes of her mask, trying to make out someone she knew. Everything was alive. With a dizzy thrill of abandon, she threw herself into the throng. Wax dripped from the chandeliers and sizzled as it hit the floor. Henrietta dodged around the molten pools, sweat pouring down her neck.
‘Do you know me?’ A Roman centurion bowed to her, his voice disguised. She didn’t recognise his figure. He was rather short; the bristles on his helmet only came up to her hairline. Silver armour encased his broad chest.
‘Not I, indeed. You have disguised yourself well.’ She fluttered her fan before her face and ducked away from him.
Buzzing conversation overpowered the orchestra. Violinists plied their bows, but she could not make out the tune with her bad ear.
‘Fair shepherdess!’ A harlequin pranced beside her. Was it Lord Chesterfield? ‘May I have the honour of fetching you some punch?’
‘It would be gratefully received.’
While the harlequin scampered off, she moved to the open windows, eager for a breath of fresh air. The drapes barely stirred. Fountain Court lay dark and still below, rendering up the nutty scent of conifers.
‘Ah, here is the person we must ask!’ A tap on her shoulder forced her to turn round and meet the intent gaze of a highwayman. A woman dressed as Cleopatra stood at his side; from her wand-like figure, Henrietta guessed it was Molly Lepell.
Grinning, she held up her hands. ‘Take what you must, sir! I am but a poor shepherdess, willing to give up her little purse.’
The highwayman put a hand to his scabbard. ‘You are safe, madam, I want no fee from you.’
‘We came to ask about your supper parties,’ Cleopatra said. ‘Will there be any, this summer? Do say there will.’
For an absurd moment, Henrietta mourned the failure of her disguise. Then the question slammed into her. Supper parties. Charles didn’t know she had entertained in his absence. He must not find out. She darted a look over her shoulder. The centurion still hovered, his armour shimmering in the candlelight like a firework’s silver rain. She could not see Charles in the throng, but her skin grew tender with the anticipation of bruises.
The harlequin returned with her drink. She took the glass in her hand; some of the liquid had slopped over the rim. ‘Have they asked you yet? I do long for another supper party in Fountain Court.’
Henrietta gulped her punch. It was hot and too sweet, but the alcohol gave her senses the kick they needed. ‘No. I am afraid there will be no suppers.’
‘Surely one – just one? The whole court pines for it.’
The whole court? Were they talking of it so openly? ‘I dare not – I must not.’ She knocked back the rest of the punch and thrust her glass at the harlequin.
Bunching her skirts in her hand, Henrietta moved away from her companions and pushed through the crowd. Her eyes skittered over faces, seeking the grim countenance of her husband. Images swirled before her. The taste of punch clung to her mouth, fruity and sharp.
‘Oh, cruel shepherdess! Will you not bestow one kind glance on me?’ She jumped and saw the centurion, still on her heels. Without thinking, she extended her hand to him. He seized it and carried it to his lips. His popping blue eyes never left her face. Something in them was familiar . . .
‘That is very kind,’ he whispered. ‘Very kind indeed.’
She stumbled back, colliding into a passing nymph. The German accent gave him away. The centurion was the prince. Mumbling her apologies, she flew to the door. A small, dark panelled room led off the Cartoon Gallery toward the King’s Eating Room. She shut herself into it and slumped against the wall. Her glossy skirts slid until she was on the floor in a pool of grey and peach silk.
Her heart thumped. Had it really happened? Had the prince kissed her hand and looked at her with desire? She pushed the idea down, like a stubborn dress that would not fit in a trunk. It was no use. She saw it again: the brush of those cool lips against her heated knuckles, the soft look in those blue eyes. Madness. Utter madness . . . She wrenched the mask off her face and flung it away.
A step echoed on the wooden boards. She tensed, aware that her prone position made flight impossible. Through the shadows, she saw glinting, buckled shoes walking toward her. Her eyes slid up clocked stockings to claret breeches, a long black waistcoat spangled with silver and a frothing lace cravat. The man shrugged off his crimson jacket and let it fall to the floor like a puddle of blood. His mask was an elaborate Venetian style, flame-red with a long, cruel nose. Though it covered a third of his face, Henrietta recognised him. No disguise could transform her husband of eleven years.
‘Henry told me you hurried off. He was suspicious. Damned boy’s getting smarter than I am.’
He always was.
‘So tell me, then. Who are you waiting for in this deserted room?’
Henrietta swallowed. ‘No one. Why would I meet someone here?’
‘You tell me. You charge off from our apartments, leaving me behind, a wild gleam in your eyes . . .’
‘We were late,’ she bleated.
‘Late, for a masquerade ball!’ The harsh sound of his voice reverberated back at her through the empty chamber. ‘Tell me, Mrs Howard, why you felt the need to be punctual for a masquerade ball? Who would notice us enter that push of hot, sweaty courtiers? Who would look at the clock and tut? Who, if they did, would even recognise us in costume?’
Henrietta opened her mouth. A pathetic, breathy noise came out but she had nothing to say. She strained her failing ears, listening for a trace of laughter or music. If she called out, would anyone hear her?
Charles shook his head. ‘You really do think I’m a mutton-brain, don’t you?’ To her horror, he slid his hand down to the scabbard on his hip. He did not unsheathe the blade but she could see its hilt, winking menacingly at her.
‘No. No, of course not.’ Her dry tongue stumbled over the words. ‘I’m the fool, Charles. You are right – I did not think. I thought we would be in trouble for being late. I see now that I was wrong. I am sorry. I should have waited for you.’
He paced closer. Hairs stood up on the back of her neck. ‘You should have sought me out when you reached the gallery. Instead, you left me to see you, flirting with other men. Making a fool of me.’
‘It’s a masquerade,’ she gabbled. ‘Everyone flirts. It means nothing, Charles, nothing . . .’ She gasped as he closed the gap between them and clamped a hand on her hat. He pressed down, leaning his weight onto the straw. Hot pain seared through her scalp. The material snapped and buckled, causing hat pins to scrape mercilessly along her skull.
‘And then,’ he continued, watching her writhe and squeal, ‘I hear of supper parties. The great Mrs Howard’s supper parties, where men of the court flock. You never thought fit to mention these to me. I wonder why?’
Henrietta panted, willing words to come. She could focus on nothing but the pain. Blood dribbled down her cheek and spotted the floor.
Giving one final shove, Charles released the hat. Relief made her giddy, toppling her straight forward into his legs. He bent and seized her shoulders, burrowing his fingers into her flesh. ‘Supper parties,’ he snarled. ‘More like orgies, from the sound of it.’
‘Don’t be absurd!’
‘Absurd?’ He shook her, jolting her head back and forth. ‘Me, absurd? When half the court tells me you spent these little parties making eyes at the Prince of Wales!’
His rabid face flashed as her head snapped from side to side. ‘I – I,’ Her voice shook. ‘I sp-spoke t-to the p-prince. N-nothing m-m-more.’
All of a sudden, he dropped her. She fell to the floorboards with a thump, the flowers in her hair exploding in a cloud of petals.
‘You expect me to believe that?’ He laughed grimly. ‘Always the actress. You were born for a courtier.’
Henrietta focused on his ankles and black shoes as they strode up and down the length of her body. She thought of a tiger surveying its prey, deciding where to bite.
‘They say the prince wants a mistress. You thought yourself fit for the task, I daresay. Meant to cuckold me before the whole of London!’ His foot flew toward her face. Pain shrieked through the delicate cartilage of her nose. She dug her nails into the boards and scuffled, but she couldn’t get up. Every time she made progress, another kick sent her sprawling back on the floor. Stars danced before her eyes. She heard snaps and thunks, the sickly squelch of splitting skin. Then she heard nothing at all.
Pain awoke her; searing through her limbs, scorching her face. The small chamber was silent and dark. For a moment she was confused. She had expected to see her old room at Beak Street. Gritting her teeth, she attempted to rise onto her knees. They buckled, useless, beneath her. She tried to call out. Her throat was tight and raw, producing nothing but a feeble moan. Gingerly, she turned her aching neck to assess the damage. Diaphanous material surrounded her. She put out a hand and fingered cool, slippery fragments. Her beautiful dress, cut to ribbons.
‘Good God!’ Feet pounded toward her, making her head ache. The guards?
She did not look up. Shame lit her from the inside. All that time trying to keep up appearances and now she was exposed – before the whole court. What would people say? She pressed her forehead back against the dusty floorboards. Perhaps some good would come of this. Maybe Caroline would expel Charles from court. But no, Caroline did not have the power; that was the King’s remit. And the King was not one to pity disobedient wives. Henrietta remembered the queen locked up in a castle, never to see her children again. Henry. If Charles left, he would take Henry with him. Her trembling body steeled itself with sudden purpose. She could not let the guards find her. Charles must not be caught. Contorting her face into a determined snarl, Henrietta put one hand in front of the other and clawed her way across the floor.
‘Stop! Madam, in Heaven’s name!’ Hands touched her gently. She tried to wriggle away but exhaustion took over. ‘Let me examine you. I can help. I am a physician. Dr Arbuthnot.’
She slumped, defeated. Through the mist of frustrated tears she saw a man with a weathered face and a pointed nose leaning over her. A grey wig flowed from beneath his hat to graze his chin. ‘You must not . . . please, do not tell anyone.’ Her mouth bubbled with blood.
‘You have been assaulted, madam. How can I stay silent?’
With all her might, she gripped the shoulder of his jacket. Her eyes burnt into his. ‘It was an accident. I fell.’
He looked at her ripped dress, the bruises, and her missing teeth. ‘I do not believe that for an instant. But if I do not call for assistance, will you let me help you?’
Her neck hurt too much to nod. She simply closed her eyes and sighed. Gently, his arms laced under her legs and beneath her shoulders. She groaned as he lifted her. ‘Go quickly, sir. I cannot, I will not let anyone see.’