It would be hard to imagine a more dismal new year. Chaos in the streets, despairing businesses and calls for the royal family to resign. Every day brought fresh news of a suicide or a stress-induced death. Even poor Stanhope had fallen prey to a fit, leaving a crater in the ministry. The King had decided to fill it with the hefty lump of Walpole.
Henrietta surveyed the collection of depressed courtiers moping around the drawing room. No new gowns and hardly any diamonds. They had thought themselves floating on a bubble that could never burst – but it had, leaving behind a sticky, black residue.
The weather did what it could to add to the gloom. Mist rose from the river, obscuring the park, and joined with smoke lowering down from the chimneys. The only good news was that Princess Anne had recovered from her grave illness. Nonetheless, smallpox had ravaged her face, leaving deep pits.
Henrietta sighed and adjusted her necklace. The South Sea and Mississippi had taught her to dream, but now it was time to wake up. She would not have enough money to set up home with Henry now. He would be of age by the time she could rebuild her savings. Who knew what poison Charles would have poured into his ear by then?
She tried not to dwell on her misfortunes. She knew that, compared to others, her financial losses were not material. She’d heard of aristocratic dynasties ruined, men stripped of fifty-thousand pounds. But it felt like the South Sea had taken away her hope, along with her money. It had torn Henry from her arms all over again.
She walked over to where Dr Arbuthnot stood with his friends, Bolingbroke and Pulteney. Lord Bolingbroke was a jowly man with full lips, recently returned to grace from the Pretender’s court. Between him and Walpole there simmered immense distrust. Pulteney had hawkish eyes and dark, menacing brows that belied his good humour. This trio of men were Henrietta’s main companions at present. Pope had removed to a country villa in Twickenham for his health, though he visited occasionally. Mary and Molly were married. Barely a comment had passed on their disappearance from court. That was the only consolation of the South Sea; its uproar had reduced two elopements from scandal to mere tittle-tattle.
‘Gentlemen.’ She curtsied, receiving their bows in return. ‘This is the King’s first drawing room since the disaster. How do you expect him to look?’
The public were baying for blood. Investigations carried on apace, but the man in charge of the South Sea subscription book had whisked himself off to the Continent and couldn’t be traced.
Pulteney grimaced. ‘He’ll brazen it out. From what I understand, Walpole and Townshend have solved all his problems.’
‘Surely that’s not possible?’
‘Of course not. But the King believes they have, and that’s what matters.’ Pulteney’s eyes glittered fiercely. ‘The Whigs have their feet firmly under the table. It will be Walpole all the way now, you mark my words. The King thinks he can turn stones into gold.’
George would certainly not be happy about that. She pressed a hand to her bosom and felt paper shift beneath her stays. He had written her a love letter – her very first. She wasn’t one for drivel, but he expressed himself well: manly and straightforward. He was so thankful for her assistance during the crisis. Sometimes she could almost pretend . . . But no. He loved Caroline. He would always love Caroline more than her. It was Caroline who carried his child once again. It was useless to indulge in fantasy.
Feet stamped in the halls. An inner door opened and the King sailed in. Henrietta drooped into a curtsey but kept her eyes raised; she wanted to see this. Georg Ludwig carried himself admirably, without a trace of strain. Tension had scored Melusine, though; her slender face was pinched.
‘My son.’ The King nodded curtly to George. Then, turning to Caroline, ‘Ah, daughter-in-law. I have a gift for you, all the way from Hanover.’
Caroline started forward. Hope flitted over her face. She clearly expected a letter from Fred. ‘For me, Your Majesty? How kind.’
‘It is something sure to please you.’ The King clicked his fingers. ‘Fetch the boy.’
Henrietta’s heart skipped a beat. Caroline reached out and grasped the lace at George’s cuff. The boy? Could it be – had he bought Fred back after so long? The door opened once more as the court held its breath. What happiness this would bring. It had been six, almost seven years . . .
A furious yowl rent the air. Something scampered through the door on all fours, a mass of bushy brown fur – or was it hair? Ladies near the door gasped and jumped back. Yes, it was a boy, but hardly recognisable; hideously dirty, dressed in green with red stockings. He roamed around like a dog, spouting gibberish. Green eyes peered out of his grubby face. A rancid, animal smell seeped out of him and reached across the room to scratch Henrietta’s throat.
The King laughed and clapped his hands. Seeming to recognise that noise, the boy hurtled toward him. ‘What do you think, eh? Found him wandering the forest. Doesn’t speak a word of any language. God only knows how he survived. Must have been suckled by a she-wolf.’
For a moment, Caroline’s mask slipped. But her muscles flickered quickly, transforming her look of bereavement into one of pity. ‘Poor creature,’ she said, bending down to inspect the boy. ‘He must be confused.’ Warily, he sidled over to her. A sparkle on the hem of her gown caught his eye and he reached out, stroking it.
‘I know you like curious things and odd people,’ the King continued. ‘He will be your pet – but not for a while. I’m having too much fun playing with him. You should see him gnaw on twigs!’
The courtiers tittered, succumbing to curiosity, and edged closer.
‘His name is Peter,’ said the King. ‘I named him. It should say it on his collar. Damn it, where’s his collar?’
An unwilling servant crept forward to clasp the iron band about Peter’s neck. He scurried away as Peter emitted a low growl. Henrietta felt ill. Was it some kind of cruel joke? This monstrous thing, to replace the children the King had stolen?
‘Surely it is not necessary to chain him?’ Caroline remonstrated. As she spoke, Peter reached up and snatched the glove from her hand. She gave a little cry.
The King laughed. ‘You see? He’s a nifty fellow. Best keep him shackled for the moment. We’ll teach him. It will be our mission.’
Peter inspected the glove, looking to Caroline’s hand and back again. Murmuring, he tried to cram the white lace on his own paw but only succeeded in ripping it.
‘Who do you expect to care for him?’ George barked. ‘He’s filthy and wild. It’s not for the princess to clean up after such a – creature.’ He wrinkled his nose as a dark patch appeared on Peter’s breeches.
The King cast his eyes around. With horror, Henrietta saw them settle on her little group by the fire. ‘Dr Arbuthnot. Come forward, sir.’ The doctor shuffled out of the ranks. ‘Who better than a physician to take him in charge?’ The King offered Dr Arbuthnot the chain. Reluctantly, he took it, and thanked the King for honouring him.
This was a pointed slight on the Tories – on all Henrietta’s companions. Instinctively, her eyes flicked to George. Oh yes, he felt the King’s snub; it was scratched into his brow, flaming in the rash on his neck.
‘What a kind gift, Your Majesty,’ Caroline put in her silver tongue. ‘We offer you our thanks.’
George made the bow required of him with a rigid back. While he faced the floor, malicious satisfaction gleamed in the King’s eye.
Caroline leant over the crib, her heart in her mouth. Beneath the dimity curtains and embroidered coverlets, her new baby slept sound as an angel. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch him; stroke the downy head, trace the miniscule fingernails one more time. He was here at last: her William.
‘A fine boy.’ Pride lit George’s eyes. He spoke in a whisper, careful not to wake the child.
‘I don’t think we have ever had a prettier baby.’
‘Pretty? Handsome, you mean. I’ll make a splendid soldier of him.’
Caroline grinned at the ludicrous image of her tiny boy trussed up in a military uniform. ‘He must not be exposed to danger. He’s too precious.’ She looked cautiously at her husband. ‘The King hasn’t . . . The King has not made any demands?’
He shook his head. ‘This one’s ours. Ours to keep.’
Relief embraced her. Finally, her arms were full. William would go everywhere with her, be everything to her. All her thwarted affection was finally let loose on one little bundle of wrinkled skin and wispy hair.
‘Yes, little lad.’ George pulled down the blanket and peeked at William’s face. ‘An English prince, aren’t you? Born on English soil and you will be trained as an English soldier. We’ll make you someone worthy to sit on the throne, just you see if we don’t.’
A flutter started in Caroline’s chest. ‘The throne belongs to Fred.’
Their eyes locked over the cradle. ‘Aye. Of course.’
Caroline gazed back down at the baby, so full of possibility. Right now he could be anything, do anything, whereas Fred’s character would be set. She did not even know what it was. ‘Do you know,’ she whispered, ‘when I think of the future and try to picture Fred as a king . . . I just cannot see it. I can form no image. It’s all black. What do you think that means?’
‘It means you’re being sentimental and foolish. Of course you cannot imagine it. You do not remember what he looks like.’
She glanced at the ladies clustered in the corner, out of earshot. William had caught them in his spell too. Mrs Howard stood on tiptoe, yearning for a glimpse. Caroline sighed, her breath stirring William’s fluffy hair. She always felt vaguely guilty when she considered Mrs Howard. She did not mean to treat the woman harshly, but how could she help it? When she saw that pale skin and waif-like figure she imagined her husband lusting after it, petting it. At thirty-eight, a survivor of eight pregnancies, Caroline’s curves were slipping to fat. She could bear the thought of George sleeping with other women, but preferring them? Never.
And why was it he still visited Henrietta’s apartments? The affair was meant to last a summer. George usually tired of them after that. But this was dragging on, turning into something like true affection. And in his usual crass way, George kept her informed of every conquest, filling her head with horrific images. She only had herself to blame. She threw out her rage but it only bounced back at her. Henrietta did not absorb it. She just stood there with her big doe eyes, the picture of wronged innocence. It was insufferable.
Gently, Caroline extended her index finger and stroked William’s pudgy cheek. Since coming to England she had managed to skew every relationship in her life with conflicting emotions. Not this one. William would be different. She would simply love him with all she was worth, whatever he did.
‘I fear for Fred.’ George’s voice came low and rough like gravel, stirring her from her thoughts.
‘Why?’
‘Messages from Hanover. People in the King’s train I pay to watch and report back.’ George stared down at his new-born son, as if to preserve the image of him innocent and unspoilt. ‘Fred is his grandfather’s heir through and through. The King always intended this. To raise a rival for me.’
‘No. It can’t be true. Fred – ’
‘– will barely remember us. And I have this note from his tutor.’ George reached inside his pocket and fished out a letter. ‘Just read that.’
She did not want him to pass the letter over William; it seemed an evil omen. Instead, she came round to George’s side of the cradle and took the note from his hand. A line jumped out from the page and smacked her. The most vicious nature and false heart that ever man had. A lump rose to her throat. Nor are his vices the vices of a gentleman, but the mean base tricks of a knavish footman. Caroline dropped the paper. ‘No. No, that’s not about my Fred.’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
Her legs grew weak. She stumbled into the cradle, waking William and making him bawl.
The ladies moved in. Mrs Clayton put her arm around Caroline’s shoulders and guided her to a chair while the nurse scooped up William.
‘No – no,’ Caroline said disjointedly. ‘Do not take him away.’ Henrietta waved smelling salts at her nose. Another lady doused her temples with rosewater. The onslaught of scents only served to make her queasy. Everything around her was moving fast, spinning. . .
George shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’ve said too much. I will go and visit Anne, see how she’s doing.’ He moved away with rapid steps. Caroline wanted to hit him. He could brave an onslaught of enemy soldiers, but faced with a screaming baby and a weeping wife he was helpless.
She put her head between her knees to drive off the giddiness. William’s cries cut through to the bone. She winced, feeling her own hurt and fury echoed in his wails. Fred, so very bad! It could not be true. The tutor didn’t know what he was talking about.
As her eyes roamed the carpet, she glimpsed a flash of white. Her heart thumped. The note – she had dropped the note. Her son’s shame lay open on the floor for all to see. She couldn’t bear it. Even if she had to crawl, she would snatch it up. Shoving Henrietta aside, she made a lunge for the paper, caught it and tucked it under a flounce of her sleeve. ‘Leave me, leave me,’ she murmured, shooing the women away. ‘You’re making me dizzy. Get some water if you want to be useful, then leave me in peace.’ A door closed and William’s sobs retreated into the distance. Henrietta came forward with the water and put it to her lips. She drank a shaky sip. ‘I’m easily overcome,’ Caroline explained, feeling like a fool. ‘The birth has left me weak.’
The note in her sleeve teased her, calling her name in seductive tones. She had only read two sentences. There might be others of a softer construction, offering extenuating circumstances. Her ladies were too far away to see now . . . She hesitated. She should burn the letter and never look at it again. But there was some dreadful compulsion, an invisible force drawing her toward it. Unable to contain herself she pulled the paper down, took a breath and then read.
It was George’s writing, not the tutor’s. And now she inspected the paper closely, she realised it was not one scrap but a whole folded sheet: a letter. She had not dropped this. It belonged to someone else. Vague words jumped out at her, but none of them mentioned Fred. Bewildered, she ran her eyes over the salutation. My dearest Hetty. It was a love letter. George was writing Henrietta love letters, now?
‘Mrs Howard.’ She managed to make the name sound like an insult.
Henrietta stepped forward, confusion etched in her forehead. Caroline beckoned her with one finger. She leant in close, wafting a cloud of lavender perfume. ‘How can I be of assistance? Would you like some more water?’
Damn the woman; always so kind, so perfect. Why couldn’t she give Caroline one reasonable cause to hate her? This was what George held onto for comfort, these were the wide grey eyes that soothed him when the cares of the world grew too heavy. Once, they had calmed Caroline too. She thrust the letter at Henrietta’s chest. The cup of water sloshed and spilt onto her dress. ‘Take better care of your secrets in future, Mrs Howard.’
Leicester House
Henrietta lay with her cheek nestled against George’s bare chest. The soft, wiry hairs growing there seemed to rub her raw. A single tear ran down her nose onto his skin.
He started. ‘What? Crying? What is it with you women?’ He threw his head back against the pillow. ‘All you do is cry at me.’
Henrietta swiped her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to.’
‘What ails you? Are you ill?’
She shook her head, scared of trying his patience. ‘I’m being foolish. It’s just . . .’ Her exhalation caught on a sob. ‘The princess has a son. Molly has a son. I . . . I do not have my son.’ It took all her self-control not to cry again.
‘You do not have Henry because you left him,’ he pointed out.
‘I was in fear of my life! And when I ran from St James’s, I didn’t know . . . I did not know I couldn’t go back.’
‘So you want to return and live with your husband?’
She threw her arm across his stomach and clung on to him. ‘No, no. Anything but that. I just miss my son.’
‘You could have had a son with me by now,’ he said brusquely. ‘But you insist on using these blasted herbs and sheep guts.’
Sometimes he was so stupid. ‘Can you see the princess tolerating a little by-blow running round her palaces? And what about Charles? You do not know him. If he found out I had another man’s child, he’d hunt it down and dash its brains against the wall.’
He choked on something between amusement and shock. ‘Is he really that bad?’
‘You have no idea.’ Henrietta climbed out of bed and stumbled to her writing desk. Groping amongst the papers, she found the letters from Charles and her brother John. She pulled off Charles’s Howard seal and tossed it into the fire before sitting down beside George. He propped himself up on the bolster. ‘Look at these. When the Earl of Suffolk died, he left Charles Audley End House and his brother Edward the title.’
George frowned, scanning the page. ‘On the condition that Charles pays his brother one thousand, two hundred pounds a year from the rents, it says.’
‘Yes. Perfectly reasonable. But rather than running a good estate and putting some money aside, Charles has decided to sue my brother.’
‘Your brother? What has he to do with this?’
‘My brother has charge of my dowry. Our uncle tied the money up in the marriage contract to keep it safe from Charles. He had better judgement than I! Charles is suing to get his hands on it and pay off his brother. My entire four thousand, and legal costs! This will ruin poor John.’
George peered down the end of his nose at Charles’s letter. ‘These insulting terms he addresses you by! Are these usual?’
Henrietta scoffed. ‘These? These are polite. Practically affectionate. These are my billet-doux from my spouse.’ Now she had George’s attention, she wanted to spill her past before him. Shame was nothing compared to the acid rising inside her, demanding release. Every venomous thought, every agony of her life; she wanted to press them deep into him like a seal until he felt her pain. ‘Didn’t you see the scars?’ she cried, pulling up her nightgown. ‘That one on my thigh. And there, on the sole of my foot, where he pressed it against the grate until all the skin peeled off. What about my four ivory teeth?’ Wildly, she flicked her hair back and pointed at her scalp. ‘These! Look at these! In St James’s Palace, at the masquerade. Do you remember, when you dressed as the centurion and then . . .’ Emotion bubbled up and hampered her voice. ‘The blood,’ she spluttered. ‘You wouldn’t believe the blood.’
George sat staring at her. Never before had she seen him lost for words. Silently, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against him. ‘I did not realise. Caroline intimated, but . . . I didn’t realise.’
‘I did not tell her everything,’ Henrietta mumbled. ‘I was too ashamed.’
He stroked the back of her head. ‘And no one could help you. The law would have little quarrel with Charles until it was too late.’
She looked up at him, beseeching. ‘Do you understand now why I left my Henry? I had no choice. I didn’t want to leave my son any more than your mother wanted to leave you.’
He stiffened beneath her. Henrietta cursed herself. She had said too much. But to her surprise, George’s face crumpled. ‘It is not fair, keeping a little boy apart from his Mama.’
‘No. It isn’t. I worry Henry will forget me. He never writes.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘A boy never forgets his mother, Henrietta.’
She only hoped that was true.