The clock ticked, every second a needle in Caroline’s skin. Purgatory would be better than this. Anything but the weighted silence of her courtiers and the strange hush in the square outside. Surely, after three years, the King would accept George’s olive branch? How long could he hold a grudge? Her thoughts stretched down the winding streets to St James’s Palace, tracking George’s sedan chair. She saw his large cuffs, embroidered with gold thread, and the flaps on his pockets. In the left-hand side was the speech she had laboured over all night. She made a steeple of her hands and rested her aching head against it. Please God, let it work. Today would tell if her years of hard graft had paid off. She had wooed Walpole and Townshend, persuaded George to copy letters and distracted him with a mistress. She had spent hours on her knees – sometimes to Melusine, sometimes to God. What if it was all in vain?
Outside the window, April weather mocked her, brazenly cheerful and bright. Fragile blossom grew on the trees and daffodils peeked out of the earth.
Henrietta hovered at her side, equally tense. It gave Caroline a strange sense of relief to know that, whatever happened, she would not face the burden of George’s temper alone. ‘Mrs Howard, tell me your thoughts. Will the King and the prince be reconciled? Or do you think my husband’s pride will stand in his way?’
Courtiers looked around, intent on the exchange between princess and mistress.
‘I hope not, Your Highness. He loves you and your daughters very much. He will do anything to reunite you.’
A perfect, gentle answer as always. Caroline was not appeased.
Noise outside catapulted her to her feet. She dashed to the window, thrust Miss Meadows from the cushioned seat and gripped it with both hands. About thirty men ran into the square, whooping for joy. A lad amongst them tossed his cap into the air. ‘I do not believe it.’
Yeomen of the Guard tramped into Leicester Square. Sandwiched between the point and the vanguard was George’s sedan, its leather flaps pulled back from the windows. His face was flushed, pink and smiling behind the glass. Caroline’s knees gave way. ‘It is the prince,’ she gasped. ‘The King has restored his guard.’
Without waiting for her signal, the courtiers hooted and spilled from the door. Caroline turned to the deserted room. Only Mrs Howard remained, her expression unreadable. ‘You have done it, Your Highness. They are reconciled.’
Caroline blinked. She had pushed long and hard against the same unyielding wall until it became her life’s focus. Now it lay in rubble, she felt lost. ‘My girls . . . ’ she started. But then it came to her in a flash of joy: she would regain more than just her children. George and Henrietta would be at her command once more. Now peace was secure, there would be no need for Henrietta to whore herself.
When the sides of George’s sedan opened back on their hinges, Lord Chesterfield and Mr Gay lifted him aloft and carried him back to the house.
Caroline pushed forward to claim his trembling hands as they set him down on his feet. ‘What happened?’
His eyes glowed with tears. ‘I hardly know. I knelt to him and I said what you told me to say …’ His voice caught. ‘The King went pale. He could not speak.’
‘He didn’t speak at all?’
‘He said something about my conduct, and then I came back with all this honour. We are to attend the next drawing room.’
Caroline gasped. ‘We can go to court? Our girls will be there?’
George nodded, his lower lip quivering. ‘Yes, my love. They will be there for us to see.’
Heedless of the crowd, she kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Are we moving back in to the palaces? Can we leave now?’
George draped his arms around her shoulders and eased her head down onto his chest. ‘I do not know. Let’s see what happens at the drawing room. It is too much to think about now. What are you always telling me?’
‘These things take time,’ she recited, her lips moving against his silk waistcoat. ‘We must be patient.’
He planted a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Precisely.’
She nuzzled into him. After spinning so long on the wrong axis, her world stood straight again. Its shattered pieces were slotting back into place.
Anticipation crackled in the air. Henrietta choked on a thick cloud of perfume. The Maids of Honour tittered and scolded their servants, demanding more rouge, darker eyebrows, more patches. A real drawing room at last, a chance to recapture their old beaux. They had ordered the finest court mantuas, sparing no expense. A rainbow of sumptuous material sparkled all around the room. But for Henrietta, every happy notion receded before one dark phantom: Charles. He would be there, smiling his seductive smile, convincing everyone he was nothing but a respectable, wronged husband.
She touched her hair, stiff with sugar water and pomade. Beneath the flowers were white scars, burnt into her scalp at the masquerade. Charles would punish her for leaving him. She was not sure if he knew about her affair with George yet, but if he did . . . She swallowed. She was a dead woman.
The maid powdered Henrietta’s alabaster face. Next, she painted her lips, bringing colour to her lifeless frown. The courtesan peering out from the mirror did not look like plain Henrietta Howard. Another patch, another tweak to the eyebrows and she saw what she had become: maîtresse-en-titre. She had worked hard and risen far to become a leading lady of the court, but she did not feel invincible. Beneath it all, she was every bit as frightened as the girl who had cowered in the corner at Beak Street, begging her husband not to hurt her.
Now she was mistress to the Prince of Wales, her wardrobe brimmed with treasures. She wore a duck-egg blue mantua, shot through with gold spangles. Her petticoat was cream, embroidered with flowers and cherubs. A froth of lace sat at the back of her head, while cool pearls hung against her throat. She gripped the handle of her fan and gritted her teeth. It was time to go.
The April night was mild, a welcome relief after the press of heated bodies preparing upstairs. As Henrietta descended the palace steps into the courtyard, Caroline climbed into her sedan chair. She looked every inch a princess, resplendent in soft pink satin. Henrietta followed her with tiny, mincing steps, constricted by her gown.
By the flickering light of a flambeaux, she folded her panniers until they looped at her sides like an insect’s wings, and tilted her head back to protect her curls. When she was ready, the sedan men closed the doors and slammed the roof shut. She fought a surge of panic as they hoisted her up and carried her into the night.
Caroline’s chair swayed before her, surrounded by a cluster of guards. Their uniforms flared blood red in the torchlight. By the time they reached the gatehouse of St James’s, crowds had gathered on both sides of the road. Eager faces pressed against Henrietta’s window, desperate for a glimpse of a famous courtier. Unable to give the smile they craved, she let down the leather curtain with a slap.
A crescendo of noise signalled her arrival in Whalebone Court. She sucked in breath as her chair bumped down and the sides fell back, releasing her from captivity. The air failed to refresh her; it was tainted with smoke from the braziers and horse dung. She staggered to her feet, unfolding her panniers and smoothing her mantua over them.
The courtyard teemed with activity. People looked strange with white-painted faces and powder dulling their hair. The night was dark, casting shadows that leapt and shrank. Flames shimmered on jewels as fresh ladies alighted on the cobbles. Everyone aimed for the palace, but it was impossible to move more than one footstep at a time. Boys dashed to and fro with lamps; sedan chairs weaved from all directions. Inch by inch, Henrietta nudged her way toward the portico.
Just before she reached the staircase, Gay emerged from the crowd in a suit of silver and dark blue. She grabbed at his arm, reassured by his masculine scent of pepper and cedar wood. ‘For God’s sake Mr Gay, stay with me.’
His eyebrows climbed. ‘Of course I will.’
He helped her up the steps. Anchored by his steady arm, she could look around. Lord Chesterfield walked up ahead with Molly on one arm and Mary on the other. The girls glided beside him as if on wheels. They moved through the guard room, the presence chamber and the privy chamber, penetrating ever deeper into the beating heart of the court. Finally, the door to the great drawing room opened and Henrietta closed her eyes, trusting Gay to guide her across the threshold. People pressed against her, jostling, squeezing. Behind, she heard a thump and a shriek as someone fell down under the relentless stream of heels. A tall gentleman shouted his apologies over his shoulder.
‘It is all right,’ Gay laid his hand upon hers. ‘I do not see your husband. The King and his court are not here yet.’
Henrietta cracked open her eyelids. He was right. Only Leicester House courtiers crushed together, beneath the grave figures on the tapestries. Their faces whirled. It was hot, so very hot . . . She snapped open her fan and waved it.
In the corner, Caroline chatted to her ladies. She made fluttering gestures with her hands. George stood beside her with a false smile nailed to his face. Poor thing, he was wound tight, ready to snap at any moment. This was not him; the counterfeit charm, the grovelling, the pretence. He would sooner fight a round of fisticuffs with his father and have done with it. Henrietta itched to lay her hand upon his arm and offer some reassurance, but she knew it was impossible.
The Maids of Honour dropped their voices to a silky whisper. A latch clicked, an inner door opened, and the King entered, his head held high. Behind him came Melusine and the three little princesses – much grown since Henrietta had last seen them.
Perfectly rehearsed, the girls lined up before their parents. Caroline gasped and stepped forward, but the King moved his head ever so slightly to the side. Her face flickered as she saw the denial written there. Trembling, she offered a curtsey. The little girls returned it with heartbreaking formality.
Silence stretched. Henrietta stared at the King’s lips, willing him to speak. He merely nodded at George and Caroline, then turned away. His favourites clustered round him, elbowing others aside for attention. They swept him, Melusine and the girls to the opposite side of the drawing room.
Henrietta turned to Gay, distraught. He offered her a bewildered shrug. It did not look like a reconciliation at all – simply permission to share the same room.
Molly stood on tip-toes, trying to catch a glimpse of the King. ‘Look at that!’ she whispered. ‘He will not speak to them!’
‘Do you see Colonel Campbell?’ Mary asked. ‘Or Mr Hervey?’
‘Yes! Over there, by the door.’
‘Then let us go to them. If the royals won’t make it up, we may as well have some fun this evening.’
Henrietta grabbed Mary’s sleeve. ‘Be cautious. You know the prince does not like to see you with other men. Do not flirt too openly, or your colonel will take the blame.’
Mary leant forward to press her lips against Henrietta’s good ear. The scent of rosemary drifted from her skin. ‘Mrs Howard, I am going to marry him,’ she whispered. ‘You must not tell a soul.’
Henrietta fell back, stunned. Marrying without permission would send George into a frenzy of rage. Did Mary not realise she was playing with fire? ‘I would counsel you against such a rash step.’
Mary’s painted lips grinned. ‘Oh, la. It is the greatest adventure. And Molly is going to marry Mr Hervey, before his horrid mother can stop them.’ She fluttered her eyelashes, so pretty and girlish. So full of hope. ‘Please swear you will keep our secret?’
What could she possibly say? Too much resistance would only push her further down the wrong path. She gripped Mary’s hand. ‘I cannot stop you. I believe Campbell is a good man. But be sure, Mary. Think. Do not let me see you tied to a spouse in haste. Do not let me see you throw your freedom away. Especially when it will prevent you coming back to court.’
Mary kissed her. ‘We are both certain, my dearest. These men are worth the sacrifice. They are nothing like your beastly husband.’
But Charles had not arrived in her life in the shape of a monster. He had come dressed as a lamb. She opened her mouth to tell Mary, but her slender fingers slipped away and she was gone in a cloud of lemony herbs.
Shaking, Henrietta leant on Gay and took a turn about the room. She was fraught with premonition. She had not seen Charles enter, but after Mary’s words she felt him; a contaminating presence, wafting sour threats.
‘You have your sword, don’t you?’ she asked Gay.
He looked to the dress scabbard at his side. ‘This? In Heaven’s name, Henrietta, what do you fear?’
She shook her head. Lord Chesterfield arrived beside them. ‘What a to-do, eh?’ He dabbed at the sweat on his face with a handkerchief. ‘It’s frosty as January between the royals.’
‘I can feel it,’ Gay said. ‘Why won’t the King talk to the prince and princess?’
‘In his mind, he’s done no wrong. It is all their fault.’
Poor George. However would she comfort him? As for Caroline, this would destroy her. She had worked so hard . . .
‘Well now, look at this.’ It was him. Charles. That dread voice froze the marrow in Henrietta’s bones. ‘Why am I not surprised to find my wife sandwiched between two gentlemen?’ He stalked toward them, a chapeau bras hat clamped beneath his elbow.
‘Mr Howard.’ Gay bowed, lips pressed together.
Charles’s eyebrow lifted, sinuous as the whipping tale of a snake. ‘This is one big reunion of happy families, is it not?’
Henrietta could not move. Every barbed word she had rehearsed fled in terror. Obeying the habit of a lifetime, she performed a curtsey and asked, in a quaking voice, after Charles’s health.
He smiled his slow, treacherous smile. ‘As you see I am surviving, despite my misfortunes.’
He was running to fat; his belly protruded from beneath his waistcoat, stretching the watered grey silk. ‘I am glad to hear it, sir.’
Charles let his gaze slither over Gay and Chesterfield. ‘Perhaps the stories I hear of your rise in favour are true. You seem to have your own little guard. But as for the other tales . . . ’ He whistled. ‘They would make your hair stand on end. It’s a good thing you can come back to court and live with me, Hetty. Show all the gossips you are a virtuous wife.’
Horror seized every muscle. Live with him again? ‘Nothing is finalised yet, Mr Howard,’ she said in a rush, ‘I do not have permission to leave the princess . . . We do not know what will happen.’
‘You should have seen Henry’s face when he heard about you and the prince. I never saw a lad turn so pale.’
Henrietta snapped her fan shut, trying to conceal the tremor in her hands. ‘Henry will be pleased with me when I explain I am saving for his future. When I tell him about the stocks in the Mississippi venture and – ’
Charles clicked his tongue. ‘Well, like you say, my dear, nothing has been decided . . . If you cannot live with me yet, you cannot see Henry.’
Her pulse beat thick in her throat. ‘Yes I can. My son can come and visit me.’
He shook his head with a mock expression of regret. ‘I do not think so. You see, unless you return to the family home, you will have no admittance to my son.’
Gay’s arm came up under her elbow, ready to support her as she swayed. ‘But . . . ’
‘Do not distress yourself, Hetty. It’s not personal. I must think of Henry’s welfare, his reputation. He could hardly associate with a runaway mother, could he?’
‘He is my flesh and blood. He –’
‘Oh hush, hush. Save your breath.’ He put a clammy finger to her lips. She recoiled at his touch. ‘This is not my doing. I am advised in my actions by the King himself. He and I think alike on these matters.’
She stared at him. ‘The King?’
‘Yes. He takes rather a hard line with disobedient wives.’
Her mind ricocheted back to Herrenhausen and the stories of George’s mother. She remembered George, particularly emotional one night, confiding that he had not seen her face since he was nine years old.
Charles grinned, backing off. ‘I bid you a good evening.’
It was too hot. She could not breathe. Tapestries, laughing girls and sparkling waistcoats danced before her eyes. Chesterfield’s strong arm came around her waist. There were no chairs in the drawing room. They propped her against a wall, rough with fibres of ancient tapestry. Gay snatched the fan from her hand and wafted it before her face, but it only blew back the same reeking air.
‘Take her out, you fools.’ Caroline’s voice came tinny and far away. ‘Before people gossip.’
For an instant, the haze cleared and Henrietta met Caroline’s eyes. They were empty and soulless.
‘I wish you better, Mrs Howard,’ she said stiffly. ‘It seems neither of us have obtained what we wanted from this night.’