Glorious sunshine blazed over Richmond Green, bringing the foliage to life. Caroline preferred the landscape of her new home to the geometric, ordered patterns of St James’s privy gardens; it was free and natural. A lawn stretched down from the elm tree toward the glittering river. She imagined Emily rolling down that bank, coating her dress with sweet-smelling grass stains, and Anne chasing butterflies with a net. She stepped away from the window and sighed. Nearly six months since little Georgie’s death, yet still she pictured him waddling, stiff-legged, holding his sister’s fingers as he learnt how to stand.
She sat heavily on the sofa. The new baby pressed against her pelvis and sent a shock of pain through her spine. She was sick of this pregnancy – she could never get comfortable. As if the heat was not bad enough, her child was intent on sprawling across her at impossible angles.
A tap on the door. ‘Lord Townshend and Sir Robert Walpole, Your Highness.’
She screwed on a smile as the two men shuffled into the room. Townshend she knew of old, but his brother-in-law Sir Robert Walpole was a new sight. She studied the man, trying to get the measure of him. His appearance was not appealing. He was a man of enormous girth, ruddy-faced with thick lips and a pair of eyebrows like black caterpillars wiggling across his forehead.
After Townshend’s fall from power, Walpole had resigned his own post as Chancellor of the Exchequer. But now the King had made himself unpopular with an Act to limit the creation of peers. He was courting both Walpole and Townshend in the hope they would bring disaffected Whigs back on to his side. Caroline was determined: she would win these two politicians before Georg Ludwig could.
‘Please be seated, gentlemen.’ Townshend cast a wary glance at the skirting-board before flicking up the tails of his coat and obeying. Caroline laughed. ‘I can assure you the rats are all gone now. Our man was most thorough.’
Townshend removed his hat and ran the brim through his fingers. ‘I am glad to hear it, Your Highness. A terrible thing. Had an infestation myself, years back. Hard blighters to get rid of.’
Caroline pursed her lips. ‘It is a misfortune we have become accustomed to. When one is thrown out of one’s own palaces and has to purchase others – what is it you English say? Beggars cannot be choosers?’
‘Yes, that is the phrase.’ Townshend looked uncomfortable. ‘Though – I believe – did not the King say you could stay at Hampton Court, while he is in Hanover? Perhaps I am mistaken.’
‘A little mistaken.’ Caroline bit back the bile rising in her throat. ‘He said I could stay. Not my husband. Just as my husband was not permitted to visit his dying son.’
Townshend plaited his fingers together. ‘Ah. I see.’
‘Our summer residence will be here and in winter we will live in Leicester House. The King may have taken away our homes but he cannot stop my husband’s allowance without Parliament’s consent. We will buy our own palaces.’
‘And may I ask what our role is to be in these palaces?’ Walpole asked. ‘Perhaps Your Highness wants to be a Whig hostess now?’
Caroline smirked. ‘Whig, Tory – is there a difference, these days? I know your party is divided amongst itself. I know you, Sir Robert, make suggestions that do not fit in with the philosophy of the Whigs at all.’
He inclined his head.
Caroline adjusted a cushion behind her. ‘It strikes me that these are the actions of a man who likes to keep one foot in each camp. This is a strategy I admire.’
‘I do not believe your husband admires it, or me.’
She spread her hands. ‘And you see where this has led him. But this is not a matter of admiration, it is one of trust. And there is one thing I can always trust a politician to do.’
‘What is that, pray?’
‘To look after his own interests.’ Caroline saw a gleam in Walpole’s large, dark eyes. They understood one another. ‘Sometimes you have the King’s favour; sometimes not. It is wise to try and win it. But then . . .’ She left a tantalising pause. ‘The King is old. Nearly sixty. What happens when – God forbid – he leaves us? Would my husband want to keep his father’s relics in the Cabinet?’
‘No. Not unless,’ Townshend said slowly, ‘he owed them an obligation. Some favour from before he came to power.’
‘Precisely.’
A thoughtful silence descended. Outside, the sun shifted. A branch’s shadow waved across the floor.
Walpole clapped his hands together. ‘My dear madam, I know what it is you desire. You want your children back. And I can say with confidence that I can get them for you.’
Caroline’s self-control wavered. Like a foolish woman, she was ready to fling her arms around the neck of any man who suggested the return of her daughters. But she took a deep breath and focused on the fine strokes of a painting, hanging directly above Walpole’s head. ‘What makes you so sure you can bring my girls back to me?’
Townshend cleared his throat. ‘Wait. Things are progressing slowly. I understand the King has granted permission for you to visit your daughters once a week?’
She glared at him. ‘Do you think that will be enough? Once a week, with their damned governess hovering over us all the time? He has our heirs in his keeping and uses them to humiliate us. Even now, while he is in Hanover, he forbids me from holding levees or drawing rooms. Our children, all younger than ten, are given the honour on my behalf. How do you think that makes me look?’
Walpole leant forward. ‘You will get them back, madam, if you can only keep control of your emotions. I think you shall. But the prince . . . Forgive me, Your Highness, but father and son are both stubborn as mules. I believe you realise, madam, that you are the only one who can bring them together again.’
The baby fluttered inside Caroline. A ray of light dropped through the window and bathed the back of her aching neck. He was right; she had always known. It was all up to her. She had to be a great monarch, even if George let her down. ‘I need help,’ she admitted. ‘This is a double-pronged attack. I can work on the prince but . . . I cannot do it on my own.’
Walpole’s grin changed into a full-mouthed smile. ‘You are not alone, madam.’ He exchanged a look with Townshend. ‘We will get your daughters back. I guarantee it.’
‘And in return?’
He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘The influence of the queen. When she comes into her own.’
Caroline put out her hand. She was glad to see it rock-steady. ‘Gentlemen. I believe we have an agreement.’
Clods of mud flew through the air as the horses charged on. A gust of wind drew out strands of hair from beneath Henrietta’s hat to whip behind her. She felt like a girl again. She hadn’t ridden since the summer she was eight years old, charging around Cawston Heath on a pony. But the body did not forget. The reins sat naturally in her hands and she found the rhythm of her gelding’s stride. It was only the lopsided sense of balance and burning sensation in her muscles that reminded her how much time had passed.
Her horse was a gleaming bay with a mane and tail as black as pitch. They called him Dandy. He was a sweet goer, very gentle. As Molly Lepell galloped up beside them on a skittish grey, rather too close for comfort, he merely snorted and held his pace.
‘Lord,’ cried Molly, ‘haven’t they caught the stag yet?’
‘No,’ Henrietta called above the thunder of hooves. ‘They take longer than foxes. But you know the prince. Only a stag will do for him.’
‘Venison for dinner again, then! A shame we are too far back here to see the kill.’
Henrietta did not reply. It was nothing for the Maids of Honour to watch an animal in pain; they had never been the ones pinned down, at the mercy of bared teeth.
Dandy gathered himself and leapt over a hedge. His hooves sent up a shower of leaves. Henrietta giggled as she was pelted with foliage. It was good to laugh and feel her lungs burn with something other than pain. Life without Charles was even better than she had imagined. It had been a summer of cloudless skies and drowsy insects. Even her body was renewed, as if it remembered the health she had enjoyed as a single woman. The scars hardly showed on her skin now; they were faint ghosts of the past.
She took the reins in one hand and swept leaves from her face and hat. She wondered if Henry rode now, if he had any opportunity to practise at the King’s dull court. He was all she regretted. But the plan kept her steady. She would find a way to raise money – she had done it before. Enough for a passage to the colonies. When the heaving ocean held Charles at bay, they would start a new life, just the two of them. Safe.
As she cantered past the river, birds swooped down to fill their beaks with water. Henrietta was watching them when a deep bay in the woods made her jump. Dandy jinked to the side. She caught her breath as he tripped and lurched, forcing her to drive her fingers into his mane and grip the pommel of the saddle with her knee. Molly and her horse shot forward, out of sight.
‘Easy, now.’ Henrietta pulled back on the reins and brought Dandy to a halt. He was standing strangely with one hoof on point. In a tangle of skirts she managed to dismount and run a hand down his hot foreleg. He flinched. ‘Poor fellow, you’ve pulled something.’ She patted his neck and spoke softly to him. ‘I’ll get you back to the stables, shall I?’ She removed her hat and wiped the sweat from her brow. Over in the distance, Caroline’s carriage stood beneath a tree with the window rolled down. The princess never participated in the hunt, but watched from afar. Only today, there were gentlemen on horseback beside her coach, leaning in and talking to her. What could that mean?
Henrietta clicked her tongue and Dandy obediently limped after her. Swallows wheeled in the sky and birch trees shivered beside the water as they walked. She went slowly, allowing for Dandy’s injury. She did not notice the pound of returning hooves until a shout greeted her.
‘Mrs Howard!’
Dandy tossed his head as another, steaming horse pulled up at his side. The Prince of Wales sat in the saddle, sweaty and beaming.
She dropped into a curtsey. ‘Oh, do forgive me, Your Highness, I did not see you there.’
‘No trouble, I hope?’
‘My horse is a little lame.’ She gestured to his hobbling gate. ‘I want to get a cold compress on it as soon as possible.’
George swung down from his horse in one fluid movement. ‘Poor chap!’ He felt around the leg for damage while his own mount cropped grass. ‘No – nothing sinister there. A bit of rest is all he needs. But let one of the grooms take him back. You should not trouble yourself.’
Other riders returned from the hunt, keeping a respectful distance. They watched Henrietta and George with curiosity. A lady leant sideways in her saddle to whisper to her companion, while one man stood up in his stirrups, straining to hear the conversation.
Heat flushed into her face. ‘I do not mind, sir. I like to care for him.’
George fisted his hands on his hips and considered her. ‘Aye. That is like you.’
She tugged on her earlobe and looked down. His mud-splattered boots stood close to hers. She smelt the hunt on him: sweat, leather and the faintest tang of blood.
‘You look well,’ he commented. ‘Happy. Are you?’
Henrietta bobbed him a curtsey. ‘I am always happy to serve you, Your Highness, and the Princess of Wales.’
He grinned and shook his head. ‘Of course, of course. You are the perfect courtier.’ His face suddenly turned grave. ‘I fear, Mrs Howard, that you may not have seen me in the best light of late. I was sorry to have you present when the princess and I had our little . . . disagreements.’
She almost laughed. His anger was louder than Charles’s, but it was less malicious. The royal couple’s arguments were mild by her standards. ‘Please, do not mention it. I understand perfectly. This pregnancy is hard on Her Highness – the baby sits so far back on her spine. She cannot get comfortable. These little – irritations – are bound to occur.’
‘Always practical, Mrs Howard. Always thoughtful.’ She inclined her head at the compliment. ‘Now answer my question honestly, not like a damned courtier: are you happy here? Do you regret your choice?’
She coloured, a little ashamed. ‘I am happy.’
‘You’ll be starting your supper parties again, I suppose?’
‘I will, sir. And as always, you are welcome to honour us with your presence.’
He clapped his gloved hands together. ‘Happen I will, happen I will.’
‘There is only one thing, I regret sir,’ she ventured. ‘My son. I do not suppose you ever hear word of him?’
George shook his head. ‘No. Getting information about my own children is hard enough. Do you not write to him?’
‘All the time.’ Henrietta cleared her throat. ‘He never replies. I do not suppose he is allowed to.’
George sighed. Suddenly mindful of his horse, he jerked its head up and began to lead it, signalling Henrietta to do likewise. ‘I wish I could solve your problem, Mrs Howard. Truly, I do. I may not be one of these simpering puppies, but I do have a heart, I assure you.’
‘No one doubts it, sir. Least of all me.’ Her eyes travelled over to Caroline’s carriage. She glimpsed the white circle of the princess’s face, surrounded by golden curls. ‘Your Highness understands, far better than many here, how difficult it is for a woman who has nothing to mother.’
He followed her gaze and his lips drooped. ‘Ah, yes. That I do, Mrs Howard.’
A harsh, white light scorched through the curtains. The windows were open but no breeze came through. Thick heat licked against Caroline’s skin and made her clammy. It was like living in a bowl of soup.
As she adjusted her sticky thighs on the edge of her seat, the baby turned somersaults within her. Perhaps he sensed her nerves; sensed that the course of his future would be determined by this meeting. Everything depended on George’s reception of Walpole.
He leant back in his chair and ran his eyes over their visitor. Walpole returned his gaze levelly. ‘Your Royal Highness. It is an honour to be here. Thank you for granting me an audience.’
George indicated a wing chair. ‘Do sit. My wife seems to be under the impression that you can help us.’
‘I hope I can.’
‘I struggle to see how that’s possible. You are not in the King’s government.’
‘Not at present,’ Walpole amended. ‘But the King needs both me and my brother-in-law to stand beside him. To be blunt, he needs the support of the people we influence. And to get us he may be willing to grant certain . . . concessions.’
Caroline’s heart beat so loud in her ears, she was afraid that George would hear it. Everything within her willed him to be reasonable – to listen to Walpole’s proposals, at least. He rubbed his chin. ‘The princess will have told you that we want our daughters back. That is true. But it is not the only consideration. Since leaving the palaces, life has been – expensive.’
Walpole looked around the room, as if costing up the silk walls and crystal chandeliers. ‘Yes, of course. I imagine it will not be long before you find yourself in debt.’
‘You imagine correctly.’
‘Now there, sir, I can certainly help you.’ Walpole sat forward eagerly. ‘Have you heard of a venture called the South Sea Company? It trades on the Spanish coast of America, and won a large portion of our national debt. It’s a scheme sure to make money.’
Caroline’s mouth was as dry as flint. It was far, far too hot. Sweat slicked her cap to her hairline. She longed for a gasp of cool air to clear her head and think. She must keep control of the conversation; she couldn’t let it bolt. ‘Your scheme sounds like a gamble, sir. We need our money safe, to provide for the girls.’
Walpole grinned. His teeth were small and uneven. ‘What in life is not a gamble? Besides, you would not need to invest much. The owners will gift you stock in return for your support.’
She groaned, too hot for manners. Would stock return her daughters? Could money bring back a dead boy? This was not why she had enlisted Walpole’s help. ‘My main concern is – ’
George stopped her with a raised hand. ‘Caroline, please. Let the man speak.’
‘But –’ She gulped in a breath. Suddenly, her chest constricted. She could not inflate her lungs; there were chains coiled about her. She slumped sideways in her seat.
George leapt up. ‘There now, you have distressed yourself. Mrs Howard! Sir Robert, be good enough to ring that bell for Mrs Howard.’
Through hazy eyes, Caroline saw Henrietta dash into the room. The scent of her lavender perfume made the baby squirm in her stomach. ‘Your Royal Highness, are you unwell? It is the heat.’ Henrietta’s cool hands pressed on Caroline’s forehead. ‘The heat is most fatiguing.’
‘I am well,’ Caroline wheezed. ‘A little swoon. I will be restored if you fetch my fan.’
‘Absolutely not,’ George ruled. The sides of his eyes crinkled in concern. ‘My dear, we do not require your presence in this matter. You should be upstairs resting.’
Thwarted ambition rattled inside her. Damn her body, damn the wriggling child, to fail her at a moment like this! She needed to stay in the room. Who else would act as mediator? Who would ensure the focus remained on her girls and not money?
Walpole looked at her, supine in Henrietta’s arms, and knit his black brows together. ‘I am sure Her Royal Highness has a strong constitution. With a fan and a little water, perhaps she might remain?’
George pushed out his chin. ‘No. I forbid it. One cannot be too careful with a child on the way.’
Caroline gaped, looking from George to Walpole and back again. She had arranged this meeting. Surely George could not cast her out?
‘Well sir, you know best.’
Henrietta’s apartments buzzed with company. She threw her doors open to the courtiers and they came in droves. She spied new guests amongst the usual followers: Sir Spencer Compton, speaker of the House of Commons, and the Duke of Argyll. It made her uneasy to see these Tories flocking to her rooms when Caroline was seducing the Whigs. She did not want to be accused of encouraging those who worked against her mistress.
Sweating, she opened another window onto the sweet-scented night air. No breeze cooled her burning skin. This summer was an unrelenting furnace of heat.
‘Oh, Mrs Howard, how cruel you are to stand there by the shade of night.’
Henrietta turned to the elderly Lord Peterborough, who had sneaked up at her side. She gave him a carefully proportioned smile. He had a habit of making absurd declarations of love that, while amusing, were starting to grate. ‘You only shine the brighter against the stars and moon.’
She laughed. ‘It is not difficult tonight, my lord. I see no stars and only the faintest ghost of a moon. Look at all the clouds. I think we are in for stormy weather.’
Peterborough leant against the windowsill with her. ‘Ah, but with your angel wings, you will rise up against such tempests.’
Henrietta rolled her eyes. ‘My dear Lord Peterborough, if you wish to pay me a compliment, you have only to tell me I am a very fine woman, and I will thank you for it. You know I have no patience with the ridiculous cant of love.’
‘These sound,’ he said archly, ‘like words from a woman who has never been in love.’
It hit a nerve. Charles had been a hasty infatuation, more an image of her own making than a real man. She had never truly been in love. A sad admission for a woman of nearly thirty. She shrugged it aside, unwilling to let Peterborough see her discomposure. ‘My lord,’ she went on, ‘I believe a person truly distressed by his emotions would express them naturally. Similes and affected expressions do not suggest real passion.’
Sauciness flickered in the old lord’s eyes. ‘If you give me leave, I will report your preferences to an exalted acquaintance of mine. It would save him much trouble.’
Henrietta caught his meaning at once. Ever since George singled her out on that hunting trip, tongues had wagged. ‘Be careful what you say, Lord Peterborough.’ She flung away from the window and pressed back into the crowd. Was that the reason courtiers flocked to her rooms? Did they have their eyes on her as the next royal mistress? Grabbing a tankard of ale, she took a fortifying sip. Her whole frame trembled. She thought of George; his short but upright figure, the soft eyes, the full lips. An attraction was there – it always had been. Henrietta recalled how awkward and clumsy she had felt that first night they met. When she had managed to please him by showing an interest in his conversation, her heart had soared like a dove . . . A dove. The image jolted her back to reality. There was another memory, more precious than any George could inspire: Caroline finding her by the dove-cote. Repulsed by her own treachery, Henrietta wiped at her forehead with a handkerchief. If only she could blot the traitorous thoughts away as easily.
Beneath the rattling dice and chinking glasses came a knock at the door. Henrietta’s servant, Daniel, let in a royal page carrying a box. ‘Mrs Howard. Something for Mrs Howard.’
Everyone looked around.
‘Oh!’ Molly squealed. ‘How exciting!’
Sly glances passed between the ladies.
‘Who is it from?’ asked Henrietta.
The page shrugged as he set the box down on the floor. ‘Don’t say. Ain’t no note on it. I just got summoned to the stables and told to take this to Mrs Howard.’
Henrietta’s curiosity grew. Now she considered the box, it seemed to move. Noises came from within, but she could not distinguish them amidst the excited chatter. She swapped a look with Molly. It was irresistible; as one, they crouched, skirts pooling around them, and levered the lid. A flurry of black, white and tan exploded into Henrietta’s lap. Amongst the straw spilling onto her skirts, she felt fur wriggling in her fingers. When a warm, wet lick touched her chin she realised what was leaping about her: puppies. She giggled, falling back and letting them jump over her.
‘Oh, Mrs Howard, they’re beautiful! Look at them!’
One was all brown, a shade lighter than Henrietta’s natural hair colour. He had a domed forehead and crazy little twitching ears, which were neither up nor down. The other puppy was a girl, black and white like a domino, all melting eyes and silky fur. They bounced on Henrietta, coating her face in kisses and disordering her cap. She laughed until her belly hurt.
‘Goodness me!’ Mary Bellenden pushed through, flapping her fan. ‘What little darlings. Who do you think would send them?’
Henrietta shrugged. For a moment, she did not care. ‘The page said there was no note. Maybe the princess sent them? I admired her little dog aloud the other week.’
‘Or Mr Gay,’ Molly put in. ‘He’s away from court at the moment; he might have thought you needed a reminder of him.’
There were a thousand possibilities. She had written to her brother John recently; perhaps one of his bitches had pupped. Or – did she dare hope – had Henry smuggled them away from a litter in the King’s stables? Was there a chance that, forbidden to write, he sent her a gesture of affection the only way he could?
Henrietta handed the bitch to Molly and the dog to Mary then stood to brush her skirts. ‘You had better take this box back, there is no room for it here,’ she told the page.
‘Yes, madam.’
She bent and helped him pick up the lid, ready to secure it back in place. Just then, a scrap of paper caught her eye, buried amongst the straw. Her hand shot out and grabbed it. The page raised his eyebrows – he had seen her quick gesture. Henrietta shook her head at him. He winked and together they put the lid back on the box.
When the page was gone, Henrietta scooped the brown puppy under one arm and used him to conceal her precious scrap of paper. She longed to be alone and read it. Everywhere she turned there were faces, laughing and shouting. Not even the window was free – Lord Peterborough still lounged there, casting calves-eyes at her. ‘Oh puppy, puppy,’ she murmured. ‘What will I do?’
It was unbearable. She couldn’t wait – it would be two o’clock in the morning before her guests left. The puppy whimpered and nuzzled under her head. He writhed, as if he was uncomfortable. Of course!
Henrietta seized her black and white puppy from Molly with her free arm. ‘I’ll just be a moment,’ she gabbled. ‘I think they need to relieve themselves. I do not want them making water in my rooms.’ She sped from the door like a woman possessed, plunging herself into the dark gardens.
She ran until the light glowing in her chamber melted to a yellow smear. Her chest relaxed; although the air was muggy, it was easier to breathe without the heavy scents of perfume and food. She plonked her puppies down on the grass, where they waddled about. The little black and white one circled and squatted. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she cooed.
The piece of paper was creased and stained with her sweat. She smoothed it out as best she could, squinting. The stars were dull and the moon was a mere fingernail of white behind rags of cloud. It was hard to read, but she was sure she didn’t recognise the writing – slap-dash letters, slanting lines. It could not be Henry. Her heart sank and her knees went with it, depositing her in a puddle of silk on the lawn. She so wanted it to be from him. She stared at the paper, as if she could change the writing by sheer will-power. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out shapes. An S. The word to. Then, as the moon sailed out from beneath a cloud, she saw the whole sentence. Everything froze around her.
Something to mother. G.