Caroline reclined against the bolsters of the state bed, sweat plastering curls to her forehead. This time, she was triumphant. The first Hanoverian prince born on English soil nestled in her arms. She gazed at his small, squashed face, so reminiscent of a pug puppy. He poked the tip of his tongue through a pair of bow lips. A fierce need to protect him closed like a fist around her heart. Her boy, her prince, at long last.
Courtiers gobbled down caudle, a traditional mixture for new mothers and their visitors. The scent of bread, eggs and sweet wine made Caroline’s stomach heave. Luminous faces peered at her, eyes slipping over the bed frame and round the posts for one precious glance of their new prince. Some pressed so close to the rail that she feared it would break. George bounced around the visitors, a grin pinned from ear to ear. That handsome smile and the proud strut to his step made her own happiness complete.
Voices swelled, making the baby squirm. Caroline jiggled her elbow and settled him as the door clicked. Melusine swept into the room, still dressed in a travelling cloak. Her red wig looked windswept.
‘Where’s the King?’ George barked.
‘Still at Hampton Court. He will come presently.’
Brushing the false red curls from her face, Melusine bent down and crooned at the baby. His small hands fluttered. ‘Ah, he is beautiful. Aren’t you, little one? That is the one thing I never had,’ she added sadly, ‘a son.’
Instinctively, Caroline’s arm tightened around his tiny body.
‘We are calling him William.’ George said stiffly. ‘I have not announced it yet. The King must approve first.’
Melusine raised one pencil-thin eyebrow. ‘I will inform the King of your choice. I do not foresee any objections.’
Caroline flicked her gaze from George to Melusine and back again, sensing the plush cushions transforming into a battlefield.
‘And I have chosen godparents,’ George announced.
‘My, you have been busy.’
‘Obviously, the King will be one. I want my uncle Ernst as another.’
Silk rustled as Melusine smoothed her skirts. ‘That’s quite natural, my dear. But there might be a problem.’
‘Oh?’
‘I will tell you in private.’
George turned to the company and flapped his hands. ‘Leave us. Get out.’
Lady Bristol sighed. Reluctantly, they formed a shuffling line to exit. Mrs Clayton craned her neck, still trying to peep at the baby. Mrs Howard peered back over her shoulder before the guards shut the door. Her face was painted white as marble. Caroline narrowed her eyes. That was strange. Henrietta didn’t usually wear cosmetics.
‘Well?’
‘You know your uncle has no heir.’ Melusine perched on the side of the bed.
George lunged forward, grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. ‘How dare you sit there?’
‘George, I do not mind. She can sit where she likes. Keep your voice down, please.’ Caroline gestured at their son, his face screwed up with displeasure.
‘Well,’ Melusine sniffed, ‘there is no need to be uncivil. Like I said, your Uncle Ernst lacks a son. If he had a godson, do you not think he would leave land to him?’
‘I should hope so!’
Melusine held up a finger. ‘No. Do not wish for it. Your uncle must leave everything to Frederick. Otherwise the Hanoverian dominions will be carved up piecemeal.’
‘And so?’
‘All that your grandfather worked so hard for will be in jeopardy. Divided, Hanover might not qualify as an Electorate of the Holy Roman Empire. Your father would rather die than lose that Electoral cap.’
‘A cap!’ George flared. ‘He has a King’s crown, in God’s name! Is our second son to starve for the sake of a bloody Electoral cap?’
‘George.’ Melusine’s voice softened. ‘Come, now. You know this is important. None of this is to spite you.’
He scoffed.
‘It is not,’ she insisted. ‘The King’s ministers pressure him. They say it is an English tradition to have the Lord Chamberlain as a godfather.’
All colour fled from George’s face. Caroline wrapped a hand around her baby’s ear; she feared the white heat of George’s anger more than the red. ‘What? The Lord Chamberlain? Why, that’s the Duke of Newcastle! That knave, that dog, godfather to my son?’
‘I know you do not care for Newcastle. But what can we do? These are not the King’s wishes, but those of his ministers.’ Melusine tilted her head to the side and gazed at him. ‘George, the King has no wish to interfere with your son.’
In three swift strides he stood before Melusine and clamped his hand to her chin. ‘You expect me to believe that? Just like he had no desire to interfere with Frederick? Do you know how long it is since I saw my boy?’ Melusine tried to move her mouth. ‘Four years and two months,’ he spat.
‘Do you want the weeks and days?’ Caroline asked from the bed. ‘For we have counted, I assure you.’
‘Pah!’ George released Melusine and turned his back on her. ‘What do you know? You are the King’s mouthpiece. And Fred . . . Fred’s probably just the same by now.’
Melusine touched her throat. Her necklace hung at a strange angle and her wig had slipped to the back of her head. ‘I will – I will tell the King of your concerns.’ Without another word, she left the room. Caroline watched her go through the door with a pang of apprehension.
‘George. My love.’ She held out a hand and beckoned him.
He kicked off his shoes and crawled up beside her on the bed, seizing her hand and holding it to his face. ‘I know. I was too rash.’ He deflated, wrinkling the fine silk of his waistcoat. ‘I couldn’t help it.’
‘My darling, I understand. You know I do. But we have to be clever. We have to make amends.’
‘Amends? He is in the wrong!’
‘Yes. But he blames us for our summer at Hampton Court. He wants us to grovel – and we must. We must keep on good terms.’ She met his mutinous glare. ‘For the girls. For this little fellow.’ She angled the baby to stare straight into George’s face. If she had to manipulate his love for the children to keep the peace, so be it. Royalty came at a price.
‘What I said about Fred. That just came out. It is not true.’ He raised his swimming eyes. ‘Is it?’
Something sharp as a thistle lodged in her throat, stretching out prickly roots to her chest. ‘No. No, Fred will always be ours.’
Caroline could not postpone the Christening. Her wishes did not signify to the English. They did not care that the boy was hers; pushed out from the depth of her pain. In the ministers’ eyes, he was property of the state. Custom forced her to remain in the bed throughout the ceremony, holding her child in the crook of her arm. She bunched the covers tight in her spare fist to hide her swelling anger.
The Duke of Newcastle strutted in, full of his own importance. Thrusting up his chin and twirling his cane, he bowed to George, Caroline, and then her ladies. ‘If I am permitted . . . The King sent me ahead with a message. There has been a slight – amendment – in the name.’
The mattress tilted beneath her. ‘Amendment?’ she echoed. ‘What kind of amendment can be made to William?’
Newcastle’s lip curled. Oh, he was enjoying this. ‘Really, the child should be named after his godfather the King. Georg.’
‘We do not choose to call him Georg.’
‘No, indeed. That is why His Majesty, in his great condescension, suggested a compromise. George William.’
Caroline’s gaze locked with George’s; a tunnel of fury. Newcastle and the King had them bent over a barrel. Surrounded by courtiers and clergymen, they could not object. In the only act of defiance she had left, she planted a fierce kiss in the centre of her baby’s forehead, the rose-hip from her lips staining his skin.
‘This is my son,’ George growled. ‘I would expect to be consulted before now.’
Newcastle flashed a row of teeth. ‘It is the King’s decision. Consultation is not required.’
Trumpet blasts drowned out George’s next words. The baby screeched as the pages called, ‘The King, the King!’
George bowed, rigid as a ramrod. He gripped his hat so hard that the rim bent.
The ceremony passed in a blur. Caroline was glad of her position in the state bed – she merely had to lay and watch. But poor George had to swallow his bile and play the part of a happy father. His taut shoulders quaked. Whenever he looked at the King, there was a tick in the corner of his eye.
At last, at last, it was over. The Holy Cross sealed her little boy with a name that was not his own. Caroline held up her arms to take him back, but the nursemaid whisked him away. The courtiers milled and dispersed. George escorted the King from the room, a ghastly smile pinned to his face. Caroline leant forward, straining to hear what passed between them. She could not make it out.
The Duke of Newcastle seemed in no mood to leave the scene of his triumph. He came up to her bedside, a smile spread beneath his hooked nose. ‘I think that went off rather well, Your Royal Highness. And after all, George is a much finer name than William. William is not to my taste.’
‘It is my brother’s name,’ she said. ‘And we did not think to consult your opinion in this matter, Your Grace.’
Before Newcastle could reply, George marched back into the room, his face set in a scowl. In a flash, he seized Newcastle and pinned him against the wall.
The duke’s eyes popped. His mouth moved like a landed carp. ‘P-please, Your Royal Highness . . .’
George’s accent took on the thick choler of its native German. He slid between languages, too furious to get a foothold in either. ‘Schurke! Gauner! Blasted rascal! Ich werde dich finden, expose you before the whole court! Oh yes, I will find you out!’
Newcastle whimpered. His wig, trapped against the wall, arched up over his scalp. Caroline smirked. She would not be surprised to see a damp patch appear on the front of Newcastle’s breeches.
‘You are a disgrace! This is the last time you ever cross me. I will not forget it.’ George shoved Newcastle again, making his skull crack painfully against the wall. Then he dropped him and walked away. ‘Get out,’ he snarled over his shoulder. ‘You are beneath my anger.’
Newcastle groped on the floor for his hat, trembling. As soon as his fingers closed around the brim he sped out through the door without closing it behind him.
Evening fell in a veil of cold black silk. Wraiths of cloud drifted in the sky, obscuring the moon and stars. Henrietta curled her index finger tight around the loop of her candleholder and pressed on. She was not well enough to carry out her duties; Dr Arbuthnot had made that clear. But she ached for company – the witty remarks, the Maids of Honour with their mischievous dimples. If she peered through the points of iridescent light before her eyes, she could see them: fine courtiers, resplendent in lace and diamonds; Caroline and George, the perfect couple with a bonny baby and three squealing girls running around their knees. She aimed for the mirage. Oh, she hated her own life, but to gaze upon them . . .
Her muscles were like iron, stiff and unyielding. She tottered off balance, fluttering the candle flame. With one hand against the wall, she righted herself and kept on walking. A metallic scent rose from the ceruse coating her bruised face. Her mouth was still swollen and her gums chafed on the false ivory teeth that plugged the gaps that Charles had made. She prayed the threatening migraine would hold off. Any more time spent abed, pleading illness, was bound to cause suspicion.
A scrape of metal made her jump. She pulled up short. The sharp curve of a halberd gleamed an inch away from her nose. ‘No passage here, madam.’
‘But – why? Why am I shut out?’
‘Not just you, Mrs Howard. No one’s to pass. King’s orders.’
She didn’t understand. She had come so far, in agony, and now . . . ‘I need – I need to see the Princess of Wales.’ She grappled with her words between gusts of pain, struggling with her false teeth. ‘Tell me why I cannot go to my mistress.’
The Yeomen exchanged a glance. ‘You won’t find the prince and princess here, Mrs Howard. Only the little-uns.’
What did it mean? Her head was full of sand and sharp, pointed seashells. She swayed.
‘Steady on, madam. I’ll fetch Dr Arbuthnot, shall I?’
‘No! Take me to the princess. That is all I ask of you.’
‘But I can’t!’
‘Why? For God’s sake, have some pity.’
‘Because she ain’t here. Halfway to Lord Grantham’s now, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Henrietta stared at him.
‘Lord, don’t you know? The King’s turfed them out.’
Her knees turned to water. She stumbled back and collided with the skirting board. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Some scuffle over the baby’s Christening. They’re out on a limb and the little mites stuck behind.’
Henrietta fumbled across the wall to a window. Ferns of frost decorated the glass. Wind moaned as it sailed through the streets. ‘He threw them out?’ she cried in disbelief. ‘Threw them out in this weather?’
The Yeomen nodded. ‘Sad times, madam. You should’ve seen the princess carrying on, fainting and sobbing, fit to break her heart.’
Henrietta jerked up, galvanised by the image. Caroline needed her. ‘Where did you say they were gone?’
‘Lord Grantham’s, down Dover Street. But madam . . .’
Henrietta did not stay to hear the end. Kicking off her heels she scooped up her skirts and pelted down the corridors, shooting out into the Great Courtyard. Freezing air cut through her like a blade. Cold cobbles burnt her feet, but she didn’t pause. By the light of the smoking braziers, she pushed on past the guard and through the palace gates.
The princess was reduced to dumb, animal grief. Tears ravaged her face; she clutched and tore her golden curls until they resembled matted straw. Her feet wobbled and gave way, unable to support her.
Henrietta worked her way past Mrs Clayton and Mrs Titchburne. Her lungs stung from running. She gripped Caroline’s fur cloak and used all her strength to hold her mistress upright, even though her bruised muscles screamed in protest.
‘Oh, my dear Mrs Howard!’ The white oval of Molly Lepell’s face loomed out of the shadows. ‘I knew you would make it.’
Caroline reached out and grabbed Henrietta’s arm. ‘They took him, Howard. Took another one. Straight from my arms. He – he –’ She did not finish the sentence. Her hand went slack on Henrietta’s arm and she plunged, threatening to spill onto the pavement. People surged around her; Henrietta’s weak fingertips lost their grip on Caroline’s cloak and the princess disappeared in a cloud of fluttering, crying ladies.
Henrietta fell back, suddenly sapped of strength. Two strong hands gripped her shoulders and held her. ‘Careful, Mrs Howard.’ The voice warmed her chill skin. She recognised it instantly: George.
His eyes were the only living things in his face; liquid and lapis blue. Red rings puffed up like a pair of hideous spectacles around them. He looked beyond crying now. Beyond everything.
‘Your Highness – ’
‘Where are your shoes?’
Henrietta looked down at her blue toes. There was no pain; they were like slabs of ice. ‘I left them behind. There was no time, I had to run . . .’
‘You have no belongings with you,’ he observed.
The others carried baskets, sacks and trunks. She had not thought. Instinct forced her to run to Caroline and George just as she came to them five years ago: with nothing but the clothes she stood up in. ‘No. I just came.’
George laced his fingers with hers. She froze, breathless at the intimate gesture. ‘God bless you, Mrs Howard. You are all heart.’
Before she could respond, his hand withdrew, leaving hers cold and empty. All at once she noticed the biting air and drizzling rain, slicking her dress to her arms.
‘Thank God you’re here. I thought we would never get word to you.’ A slim arm linked through hers. It was Mary Bellenden. She swept Henrietta with a glance. ‘Christ above, look at the state of you!’
‘What happened, Mary? I do not understand it. One minute Prince Georgie was being christened and now – this.’
Mary fixed her with a strange look. ‘Didn’t your husband tell you anything? He works in the King’s bedchamber, does he not?’
Shame made Henrietta cast her face down. ‘We are not . . . we are not close.’ She wondered if Mary would see the bruises flowering on her face.
‘That explains it. We wondered which side you would choose.’
Choose? How could anyone question her loyalty to Caroline, the woman who had transformed her world? She shivered and wormed her way under the folds of Mary’s cloak. ‘Please explain. I do not know anything.’ Her breath turned to mist in the air and lingered between them for a moment. When it evaporated, Mary looked old and sad.
‘Well, you heard the to-do at the Christening, didn’t you? The Prince and the Duke of Newcastle at each other like fishwives.’
‘I was unwell. I may have – I may have heard them argue.’
Mary scoffed and untied the lacings at her throat. Throwing back her hood, she opened her cape and encased Henrietta in the damp wool. ‘You would have heard them if you were on the moon! He deserved it too, that odious duke, pushing his way into the ceremony. But he got his revenge.’
‘It was him? He did this?’
‘He said the prince had challenged him to a duel! Put on a right show, pretended to be scared out of his wits. The prince insists he did not issue the challenge. He says the duke is making up tales. If you ask my opinion, the King has been waiting for something like this. He saw an opportunity to quarrel and took it.’
Massaging the stinging lobe of her ear, she mulled over Mary’s words. From her life with Charles, she knew the slightest thing could kindle a bad temper. But it had always been George, not the King, who struck her as the petulant one. ‘And the children?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Give thanks to God that you missed the parting, Mrs Howard. It was dreadful. Princess Anne clung onto her mother’s train like a wild cat.’
It beggared belief. ‘What about the baby?’
‘Oh!’ The breath left Mary in a cloud of steam. ‘Do not speak of it, Mrs Howard. I cannot bear to think of the poor dear. And the princess too, still weak from child-bed! I will never forgive the King. I do not care if they spike my head outside the Tower for saying it.’
They stumbled on. The ladies’ metal pattens rang through the night. Only Henrietta heaved her unwilling feet through the puddles and refuse. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, took hold.
Finally, the iron railings of Lord Grantham’s house came into view. She put out a hand and sagged against the cool metal, spotted with rust. ‘I’ll – I’ll see the princess to bed,’ she gasped. ‘I am not fit for any more. Mary, would you lend me enough coin to hire a sedan? I left everything at St James’s.’ A crease appeared between Mary’s brows. ‘Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. I forgot about your bills. Do not worry, I will see if Molly . . . ’
‘No. It is not that.’ Mary fixed her with a look that made her quail. ‘Lord, you really don’t know anything, do you?’
Dread crept up to her chin, splashing into her mouth. ‘Then tell me.’
Mary closed her eyes. ‘Look around you. Do you see the Duchess of St Albans? Lady Cowper?’ She did not wait for Henrietta to answer. ‘It was a choice. The King or the prince and princess. Some ladies have stayed behind so their husbands can keep their positions. The King will not let them serve both courts.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘You have made your decision without knowing it.’ Mary’s arm came round her waist, ready to hold her up. ‘Now you are out of St James’s Palace, they will not let you back in.’