Caroline snatched the letter from the messenger’s hands and cracked apart the royal seal, scattering wax over her lap. She knew the King would relent eventually. What kind of man kept his son and daughter-in-law away from their own children? She snapped the paper open.
Words floated off the page and stung her like a swarm of bees. She read them again and again, sure there must be a mistake. No – it was true. The King offered her poison, wrapped in a sweetmeat.
‘What does it say, Your Highness?’ Mary Bellenden fixed her with curious eyes. ‘Are we going back to St James’s?’
‘No.’ Caroline said shortly. ‘We are not.’ She folded the letter away and tucked it in the pockets around her waist. Fury gripped her throat and nearly squeezed the breath from her. The King granted her the chance to see her children – if she dropped all contact with George! What was his plan? To bring poor George to his knees? Caroline remembered the words he had whispered in anguish: the King takes everyone I love from me. Well, he would not take her.
Carrie’s doleful little face and Georgie’s chubby limbs teased at the corners of her mind, but she pushed them away. That was what the King wanted: to play on her emotions. Georg Ludwig knew if he got Caroline back in the palace, it would increase his popularity. The Londoners would not pity George then – they would think him a reprobate, cast aside by his father and wife alike. She drummed her fingers against the arms of her chair. God, she had to think, but how could she when her brain was tangled? What would Sophia do?
Henrietta stood by the fire. Her skin, always pale, was ash-grey. The flames did nothing to warm it – they only cast eerie shadows. A crumpled piece of paper rustled against her skirts as she made a fist, balling it tighter and tighter.
‘Mrs Howard,’ Caroline said softly. ‘Have you received a letter too?’
She did not lift her eyes from the flames. ‘Yes. It is from my husband.’
‘He wants you back,’ Caroline guessed.
Henrietta inclined her head.
‘That’s preposterous!’ cried Mr Gay, brandishing a newspaper. ‘Look, it says it right here in the Gazette! No one who pays court to the Prince and Princess of Wales will be admitted into St James’s Palace.’
Henrietta swivelled round, the fire’s orange glare reflected in her pupils. ‘Oh, he has a dispensation,’ she said bitterly. ‘He has the King’s approval to haul me back.’
Caroline leapt to her feet. She pushed as close to Henrietta as her hooped gown would allow. ‘Will you go? I could use a pair of eyes within the King’s household.’
Henrietta squirmed. As the lace at her elbow moved, Caroline glimpsed a yellow-grey patch of skin. How many other bruises were hidden under the folds of that gown? ‘He’ll – ’ Henrietta half-choked. She dropped her voice to a whisper only Caroline could hear. ‘Charles will kill me if I return. He really will. I know it.’
‘There now, calm yourself, child.’ She glanced around. Mrs Clayton was watching them intently, but no one could overhear their hushed words. ‘Surely you exaggerate. How could he kill you, in the King’s palace? How would he explain it?’
‘Would he even have to?’
She deliberated. Once again, she thought of George’s mother and that secret lover who disappeared from Herrenhausen. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps you are safer here.’
A slim, golden vial. Henrietta turned it in her hands, making the contents glow. Funny, how it was always her hair that suffered. First she cut it to ribbons to buy Henry a future and now . . . She was a woman alone. There was nothing for it. The old Henrietta Howard must die.
She passed to the basin and picked up a jug. Water slopped into the bowl. When it was full she knelt, twisted up her hair and plunged it into the cold water. Her scalp tingled. She ran her fingers through the heavy tresses, soaking every last strand, washing the past away.
She was doing the right thing. It made sense to stay with Caroline. She had thought about it over and over, through the sleepless nights pressed up against Mrs Clayton and Mrs Titchburne in their tiny bed. She would work hard and save. She would deny herself, do whatever it took. And then, when she had the funds, she would snatch Henry from his school and run.
Flicking droplets from her hand, she reached into her pocket and clutched a piece of paper: the last letter from Charles. Its language was so gross and abusive she wanted her damp fingers to blur the ink and blot out every trace of him. He might threaten her with the law, he might invoke the name of the King, but she would be his victim no more. Once she had reduced the letter to a limp, peeling rag, she flung it into the fire. She washed the ink from her hand and uncorked the little vial. At once, the sharp scent of horse urine brought tears to her eyes. She drenched her hair from root to tip, bleaching the chestnut curls Charles had dragged her along by. Gold glowed back at her from inside the basin. No more would she envy the buttery tumble of Caroline’s hair. She would have her own tresses, blonde as winter sunshine. She took a pinch of saffron from a twist of paper and massaged it through to take away the smell. That done, she wrapped her hair in the linen towels she had set warming before the fire. With a second jug, she rinsed her stinging hands. Water slid across her wedding band, forcing a glint from the dull metal. Henrietta stared at it for an instant. Then she plucked it from her finger and tossed it into the flames. She took up a poker and pushed the ring deep into the glowing embers. She expected to feel something: sorrow, glee, or at least spite. There was nothing.
Suddenly she heard a high-pitched wail, followed by a jangle and clunks. It seemed to be coming from downstairs. She shot to the door and looked out as Mary Bellenden stomped up the steps. A bright red stain suffused her face. The crescents of her breasts heaved, fit to burst out of her stays. Henrietta nipped out of the closet, seized Mary’s wrist, pulled her inside and shut the door. ‘What is happening?’ As the words left her lips, a roar came from below. Something smashed.
Mary yelped and collapsed into her arms. ‘Oh, Mrs Howard, it was horrible! Just horrible!’
Finding a stool, Henrietta perched Mary upon it. From her pockets she produced some smelling salts and waved them under Mary’s nose. ‘Hush, now. Tell me what happened.’
Mary hid her face in her hands. ‘Lord, I hope I haven’t done for myself. Listen to him, down there! He is so angry!’
‘The prince?’
‘Yes.’ Mary squealed. ‘He wants me to be his mistress.’
The words slid through Henrietta like a corked wine. She felt queasy and knelt down. ‘No. Surely you are mistaken. He flirts with all the maids. He just pushed you a little too far.’
Mary shook her head, making her earrings swing. ‘He wants me,’ she whispered. ‘I heard him talking to the princess about it. He lies there, next to her in bed, and tells her the strategies he’s employed to win me over! I heard him complain that I always cross my arms against him.’
‘What?’ Henrietta’s head lurched with the heat and the stench of horse urine. ‘And what does the princess say?’
Mary crept closer, her breath hot in Henrietta’s ear. ‘She encourages him. I was by the door when she spoke to Mrs Clayton – they didn’t know I was there. She said she does not mind him taking a mistress any more than she minds him going to the close stool.’
They stared at one another, their painted lips hanging open. Henrietta raised her hands to the warm linen on her head and pressed it against her scalp. ‘This cannot be true,’ she said. ‘It defies all sense. He might have wanted a mistress when the princess was pregnant, but why now?’
‘Male pride. People say Caroline rules him. He thinks that if he has a mistress, he’ll look stronger.’
Henrietta’s eyes expanded. ‘He told you this?’
Mary nodded, looking down at her lap and wringing the folds of her gown. ‘In so many words. And just now he was sitting, counting coins in front of me! As if to say he knows I am in debt and will pay it off if I . . . ’ She choked on a sob. ‘A shabby trick. I told him I couldn’t bear it and if he sat clunking his money together any longer I would leave the room. But he kept on.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Oh, Mrs Howard! I was so angry, I yanked the purse from his hand and chucked it at the wall!’
‘You never did!’
‘I did. And I would do it again.’ She jutted her chin. ‘Only – what if I lose my place?’
Henrietta put out her hands and clasped Mary’s. The finger on her left hand felt strange and naked without the wedding ring. ‘You won’t. Princess Caroline will hardly throw you out for refusing to sleep with her husband.’ She assessed the girl sitting before her, heaving for breath, turning pink and white in quick succession. Was there something else, beneath this show of offended virtue? Mary was hardly a prude. ‘Mary . . . Forgive me for asking. But why? Why did you turn him down?’
The lobes of Mary’s ears burnt strawberry red. ‘Do you think I would hand my virtue away so easily?’
‘Of course not.’ She squeezed Mary’s hands. ‘I am sorry if I offended you. But many maids would jump at the opportunity.’
‘So they might. But I . . . I am in love.’
‘In love?’
‘Hush!’ Mary snatched away a hand and pressed it to Henrietta’s lips. ‘You must not say a word. I do not know if the gentleman feels the same way. I only know he never will if I go to bed with the prince. What saint of a man would endure the shame of marrying a royal mistress?’
What man indeed? Something shifted in Henrietta’s brain, like a seed dislodging the soil to push out a green shoot. She could not make out what it would grow to be yet, but it unnerved her. Standing, she passed to the fire and unwrapped her hair. As she hung her head upside down, she saw golden highlights blooming. She seized a comb and tidied the tangled mess, counting in her head. A hundred strokes to make it gleam like a newly minted coin.
Mary watched her. ‘Blonde, like Caroline,’ she observed. ‘That’s one way to show your allegiance.’
Without replying, Henrietta tugged on the comb. An excess of energy bubbled up inside her – she needed to be doing something, moving quickly.
‘No wedding band, either,’ Mary observed.
Henrietta gritted her teeth, aware she was blushing. ‘I want to forget the past. You think the prince’s temper is bad, but you do not know my husband.’
There was a pause, with only the crackle of the dying fire and the whoosh of Henrietta’s comb to fill the silence. Suddenly, Mary spoke. ‘Take care.’
Henrietta whirled round, comb in mid-air. Mary regarded her solemnly. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
Mary looked down at her feet, stretching them inside her brocade shoes. ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. ‘Just – take care of yourself.’
Silently, Henrietta turned back to the fire and continued to comb her hair.
Caroline knew something was wrong the moment she awoke. Thick clouds blocked out the sun and sent a splatter of rain against the windows. It felt more like the middle of the night than a late January morning, but she rose and allowed the women to dress her as usual.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her face sagged into folds of sorrow. Her eyes were no longer the bright blue of a summer sky but cool, indigo chips. Losing the children had sucked the life from her like the juice from an orange. Standing up to the King’s bullying was the right thing to do, she had no doubt about that, but it was a hard path to tread. Sometimes, she felt she walked it alone. George never unburdened his aching heart. Now he was chasing Maids of Honour and pouting when he could not get them into bed. She tried to kindle some jealousy, but she could feel nothing. Life without her little ones was like a walking death. Let George do what he would – she would get them back. Somehow.
Nothing would go right; her hair fell limp, her dress was too tight and the makeup failed to cover her smallpox scars. She spat into the basin Mrs Howard held out, but her mouth still tasted bitter. Yes, something was wrong.
Deep inside, she was ready for the smack of hooves in the courtyard before they came. Each harsh sound struck a chord within her, and it was a tune she recognised. In a trance-like state she stood, pushed her gaggle of ladies aside and drifted down the stairs. She had no thoughts, no feelings. She was prepared for bad news, and it had come. The only thing to do now was face it.
Bareheaded, she went down the steps of the front porch into chilling rain. A steaming horse tossed its head and snorted as its rider conversed rapidly with an equerry, Wentworth. Both men froze when they saw her.
‘What is it?’ she demanded. She took in the roll of parchment in Wentworth’s leather glove, its surface spotted with rain. The royal seal and ribbons hung limp. Probably another document from the King, pressing for their signatures. There had been many over the last few months. First, he had urged them to sign the guardianship of their children over to him. Next, he demanded forty-thousand pounds to subsidise Fred’s education. Caroline had agreed, providing Fred was allowed to come and finish his studies in England. After that answer, the King fell strangely silent.
‘Your Highness,’ Wentworth came to her and knelt in a puddle, proffering up the letter. ‘Your Highness, I think you had better go inside to read it.’
She fixed her eyes on his damp, pale face. Water gathered in the corners of his hat and trickled down over the brim. ‘Why?’
‘It’s – it is your son.’
‘Fred?’
‘Not Prince Frederick. Prince George William.’
Caroline swayed, putting out a hand to grip the slick iron railing outside the house. ‘My baby?’
Wentworth hung his head, casting forth a stream of water to soak her hem. ‘You need to read it, Your Highness.’
Caroline took the message. Her fingertips were numb and struggled to break the wax. Unfurling the parchment, she stared unseeing at the words, as rain fell and blotted them like tears. ‘I cannot make it out,’ she said. Her lower lip trembled and she hated herself for it.
Wentworth stood and gripped both her shoulders. The press of wet material against her skin made her shiver. ‘The prince is ill,’ he said. ‘Gravely ill. You are summoned to Kensington.’
‘No.’
‘I assure you, it’s the truth.’
Caroline looked at the foaming horse, the messenger tapping his whip against his thigh, and her cloudy thoughts crystallised. That feeling of foreboding all morning, a mother’s sixth sense; it was all leading to this. ‘Dear God. I’ll fetch my husband.’ She turned but Wentworth seized her wrist in his wet glove. It was as well he did, for her knees were liquid, like the rain puddling on the streets and dribbling from the eaves.
‘No, madam. Just you.’ Her mouth flew open, ready with a hot retort, but he interrupted her. ‘Please, Your Highness. There is not a second to lose. Every moment you argue is a moment gone forever. Do you understand?’
She did. She saw the truth in his eyes and it filled her with despair. ‘My boy,’ she whispered, ‘Sir, give me your horse.’
‘I ordered the carriage before you came out.’ As Wentworth spoke the vehicle rounded the corner, water dripping from its harness.
Caroline stumbled forward, putting out a hand to touch the horse. Its flank was smooth and shiny as a black mirror, its tail spotted with diamonds of rain. ‘My boy,’ she repeated.
They bundled her inside – she didn’t know how. She sprawled across the seat, groping and gasping like a drowning woman as the driver swished his whip and the vehicle lurched forward, creaking and splashing through the streets. How could this be happening? Her baby, her liebchen. All she could see was his face on the day they had parted; scrunched up and bawling to return to her arms.
Scenery rolled by in a blur. She pushed her cheek deep into the velvet upholstery, seeking comfort in its soft touch. By the time the wheels churned over the muddy roads of Hyde Park, she could barely breathe. Gravely ill. She searched the words over for cracks, feeling with persistent fingers for a flaw. She had survived grave illnesses – smallpox and pneumonia. Wasn’t there a chance, just a slim chance, that Georgie would rally?
They slowed outside a square, redbrick building with slate tiles and urns decorating the roof. Before the vehicle fully stopped, Caroline unlatched the door and jumped out. She fell hard on her knees, coating her mantua in dirt and gravel. Heedless of the calling servants, she hauled herself up on grazed hands and pushed past the guards. She had to keep moving before she dropped. Already dark shapes fluttered around her eyes, like the wings of a black butterfly. The palace was in disarray; scaffolding covered the staircase and the air cloyed with the scent of paste and wet paint. Was this a place to bring a sick child? She glimpsed a wall, stained green at the corners with damp. Shuddering, she pressed on. She had no idea where she was going. She took step after step, her mules clicking on the floor, mimicking a tiny heartbeat.
As she rounded a corner, she saw Melusine speeding toward her. She wore no wig and no cosmetics. ‘Thank God you are here!’ She wrapped an arm round Caroline’s shoulders and pushed her on with surprising strength. ‘He’s this way, Caroline, this way.’
At the threshold, Caroline heard a weak moan. She flew forward, her skirts flaring around her ankles, and skidded to the bedside on her knees. Her tiny boy lay on a wad of mattresses, covered in green brocade. He looked so small, so helpless as he retched and coughed. Caroline slid her arms around his thin, hot body. He had the bulging blue eyes of his father and they stared into hers intently. ‘It’s all right, my precious. Mama’s here now.’
He wriggled, nestling his flushed cheek against her arm. Caroline choked on a sob. She would not show him worry or fear. She would be strong for him, and his last moments would see her smiling and confident. She sang to him; a song she remembered her own mother crooning at her bedside. Georgie punctured the tune every few minutes with his rasping, pathetic cough. Melusine’s daughters hovered in the background, but Caroline took no notice of them. She focused on her son, drinking in every feature; his tuft of golden hair, the chin with a miniscule dimple. He stared at her with glassy eyes, little wet lips forming a circle to cough. It seemed as if he too was gathering information, trying to impress her face on his young mind so he could take it with him to the next world.
‘There now, my pretty one.’ She stroked his burning forehead. His eyelashes flickered at her touch.
Suddenly, his head twitched, then his arms. Little tremors rippled through the bedclothes, until his whole body contorted and arched from the mattress. His eyes rolled back into his head. Caroline bit hard on her lip to suppress a scream – she would be damned if the last sound he heard was a cry of pain – but she couldn’t stop the tears. She gripped her son tight in her arms. She was like a peasant fighting for a greased pig; she would not let go, not when his little fist caught her mouth, nor when his head snapped up to hit her nose. Melusine and her girls sobbed softly from the corner.
‘What’s happening?’ Caroline demanded. ‘Where’s the doctor? Dear God, will nobody help me?’
‘This has happened before,’ Melusine whispered. ‘Every hour or so. The doctor says he can do nothing.’
Squeezing her eyes shut, Caroline rocked with the rhythm of Georgie’s fit. ‘Mama loves you so much, Georgie.’ With a sigh, he fell limp.
Caroline did not know how long she held him. She heard Melusine call her name, but no one dared come near and unlace her arms. She held him until the warmth seeped out of his tiny body, until the light failed and the room plunged into darkness. Someone entered to light candles. Caroline could not stand the merry cheer of their orange glow. She looked at the bobbing flame beside her, a dancing spot of light, so fragile, so easily snuffed out. She puffed her cheeks and blew. The flame dissolved, leaving a feeble stream of smoke. She watched the grey line as it wound its way upward and melted away, like the spirit of her poor, poor son.
Henrietta closed the book softly and clasped it to her chest. Carefully, she wormed her way down the bed and hopped off the end without waking George. Her stories always lulled him to sleep, but not Caroline. The princess lay, hands clasped over her chest like a stone effigy in Westminster Abbey, her bloodshot eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Chickenpox had struck the royal couple within days of their little boy’s death. In the confines of Dover Street, they no longer had separate bedrooms, so they stayed cooped up in one stifling sick chamber, sour with camphor and vinegar. But while George fretted and scratched, swearing at his spots, Caroline fell under the disease calmly, like a red enchantment. She made no comment on the itchy mounds bubbling beneath her skin, or sounds of relief when Mrs Clayton applied soothing camomile.
Henrietta placed the book on a shelf and turned to see if she could help Mrs Clayton mop Caroline’s brow. But as she put her hands on the basin, ready to take it out and fetch fresh water, they were slapped away. She moved to the foot of the bed instead and watched George snore into his pillow. She liked his face better without the swamping wig.
‘Listen to him.’ Caroline hissed. ‘How can he sleep so soundly?’
Mrs Clayton opened her mouth, but Henrietta spoke first. ‘Emotions affect us all in different ways. Some they exhaust, others they . . . ’ She trailed off, reaching for an adequate word.
‘Torture,’ Caroline supplied.
Henrietta bowed her head.
‘I wonder his conscience does not keep him awake. If he had not quarrelled with Newcastle –’
‘The baby still would have died.’ The words were out before Henrietta could stop them.
‘So they say.’
Henrietta smoothed the coverlet at Caroline’s feet. ‘I apologise. I did not mean to speak so bluntly. Only, I did not like to hear you accuse your husband. When we lose one we love, it is natural to cast blame. But we cannot let misery turn us against those closest to us.’ She took a breath. ‘The autopsy showed an excess of water on the brain and a polyp on the heart. Little Georgie was never destined for a long life.’ She felt heartless mentioning scientific details, yet she knew they would appeal to the logical part of Caroline’s mind.
‘But the King! If the bone-headed King hadn’t taken him to that draughty palace –’
‘He may have had a few more days,’ Henrietta conceded. ‘That is all.’
Caroline’s throat worked convulsively. It was terrible to stare at the emotions chasing across her face, but somehow Henrietta could not look away.
‘Mrs Clayton, stop that.’ Caroline put up a spotted hand and batted her aside. ‘You may leave. I want to speak with Mrs Howard alone.’ Lifting her nose, Mrs Clayton flung the wet rag into the bowl and strode off. She administered a deft pinch to Henrietta’s shoulder as she passed. ‘You always speak the truth to me, Howard. I have to say, I am not fond of you for it right now.’
Henrietta regarded her sadly. ‘I’m sorry to cause you pain, madam. But I know whom you really blame, and until you admit it there will be no peace for you.’
A tear slid down Caroline’s cheek. She winced as it met a blistering spot. ‘Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have gone to the children when the King invited me? Those extra days I might have had . . . I failed my son.’
‘You did the right thing for your husband.’
Caroline closed her eyes. ‘Oh, my husband! Sometimes I lie here and think I’ll strangle him while he sleeps. I know it is not his fault – not really. But I am not sure I will ever forgive him.’
‘You made the choice,’ Henrietta reminded her softly. ‘The prince would have understood if you left him for the children. He would let you go even now, if you asked.’
Caroline’s eyelids snapped open. ‘And let the King win! After all he has done to us! Never.’
Henrietta shrugged. It was a hopeless situation, ringed with pride as hard as iron on all sides.
‘Oh, Mrs Howard! Why can I not keep a son? Just one?’
‘You are not alone in that, madam.’
Caroline looked up at her. Impulsively, she reached out and squeezed Henrietta’s hand. ‘No. No, of course I’m not.’