Caroline’s time had come at last. At Georg Ludwig’s coronation, she and Anne had waited inside the cool of Westminster Abbey, excluded from the pomp and glory. Not today. October sunlight washed over them, glittering on their diamonds and blinding the spectators. Caroline walked slowly on the raised gangway that stretched down to the Abbey doors, crushing herbs beneath her feet. She had thought she would feel nervous, with so many eyes fixed upon her, but she did not. She sparkled like water. This was where she belonged. For once her mind was clear; she had truly come to life for the first time.
The weight of her jewelled dress was immense, straining her legs and rubbing painfully against the nub on her stomach, yet she found she could bear it. People blinked as she paced just in front of the gold canopy with its jingling bells – her radiance was too much for them. They could not touch her, could not look at her; she burned white hot like a star. The Bishops of London and Winchester were at her side and her three eldest daughters bore her train. The girls were cloaked in purple with silver circlets on their heads. All those years she had spent pining for them and now they were here, wrapped up like gifts.
Henrietta was in pleasing subjection, branded in the scarlet robes of a mistress. Though she looked comely, with the silver edging to her dress and her bleached hair streaming over her shoulders, she paled into insignificance beside Caroline. The kettle drums, the choir boys, and the shower of petals were all for the Queen alone.
George made a comic spectacle, parading from the other direction. He hid beneath his canopy from the unseasonable heat. Now and then his crimson cap, lined with royal ermine, slipped and covered his eyes. Caroline repressed a smile. Though he was far away, she saw his lips forming cross words. He would be as fretful as a toddler by the time he reached the Abbey. It was her the people looked to for dignity and splendour. The sceptre and ivory rod sat easily in her hands. Finally, she was home. If Fred were there, she would have nothing left to wish for.
Shade was a welcome relief as she entered the Abbey at George’s side and inhaled its cool scent. It was hard to see, after the blazing sun. Anthems soared around her; the rousing strains of Mr Handel’s new anthem, Zadok the Priest. Caroline closed her eyes. A kind of sacred trance took hold of her as the ceremony progressed. She felt herself changing, transforming into an anointed queen. People no longer viewed the monarch as a demi-god, but surely there was something heavenly flowing down from above and working its way through her veins. Look at me, Sophia. Mock me now, Georg Ludwig. Their dead hands rested on her shoulders, smelling of the crypt. She shrugged them off and took her oath. It was hers now – the throne, the children, the country – all hers.
Holding the orb and sceptre, George knelt at the altar to receive his crown. The instant it touched his head, trumpets blasted out a fanfare. Their joyous sound travelled through the Abbey, reverberating around the stone walls. A dim pop in the distance told of the guns saluting from the park and the Tower. Sweet voices rose in a Te Deum. Caroline watched as the peers drew out their coronets from beneath robes of crimson and green silk. She was the only one waiting for her head to be covered. Her brow, still wet with anointing oil, tingled in anticipation.
Flanked by her women, she made her way to the altar. Henrietta removed her velvet cap with gentle hands. How light she felt, how insubstantial, until the metallic weight of the crown pushed through her coif. She closed her eyes, exhaling. The climactic moment was everything she dreamt it would be. Henrietta and Mrs Clayton pinned the crown into place. It was fixed now – immovable. Nothing but death could take it from her.
Images danced on the back of Caroline’s eyelids. She was locked in an endless whirl around Westminster Hall, reliving her Coronation Banquet. She still saw gilded branches and their glowing candles illuminating the hall; she smelt the thick scent of meat before her on a golden platter. There were the pyramids of fruit, and the triumphal arches with statues of her and George. She felt she was sitting on the dais once more, watching the King’s Champion ride in on his steed.
Her dreams were so vivid that she didn’t notice the noise at first. Shouts in the courtyard sounded like her cheering subjects; the banging doors were fireworks exploding in the night sky. Only when she heard the name, roared out with blood-chilling ferocity, did she start up in bed, her heart pounding. ‘Henrietta!’
She froze, trying to make sense of it. For a moment, she flattered herself it was her imagination. But then the cry came again, dreadful in its wrath. ‘Henrietta!’ The voice was not George’s. Footsteps pounded closer and closer . . .
Springing from the bed, Caroline threw on a wrap and dove behind the thick damask curtains. It felt safe there, cocooned in darkness. With a trembling hand, she drew a bolt on the shutter and eased it open a crack. Wet leaves clung to the window, hampering her view. She stood on tiptoe. Outside, the moon’s pearly light illuminated the courtyard. Guards ran toward the entrance of the palace, an unearthly sheen on their halberds. They were too far away to help.
Suddenly, the door to her bedroom crashed open. Footsteps clopped around and a chair smacked against the floor as the intruder struggled in the gloom. She hunkered down in the window seat, trying to make herself small. If this man should find her alone, undressed . . .
‘Bloody woman, flitted off like a damned coward.’
His words hit a tender nerve of pride. What was she doing? A grown woman, Queen of England, hiding behind curtains? She should not fear subjects – they should be afraid of her.
Barely considering what she did, she put out a hand and parted the curtains. A beam of moonlight fell upon an unshaven face, blotchy in complexion. Greasy hair straggled from beneath the man’s beaten hat down to his shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot, ravenous. Familiar . . . Her heart shivered as she placed the man in her memory. ‘Mr Howard. What is your business here?’
It was satisfying to see him jump at her voice. ‘I am here to retrieve my property. I will have my wife leave your service and return to me at once.’ His breath stank of alcohol.
Caroline edged, ever so slightly, to her right. The door to her dressing room was at the far end of the chamber, unblocked. If she could creep her way toward it, she could cut him off from the rest of the palace. ‘I have no intention of parting with your wife, Howard.’
He glowered. ‘Then I’ll keep moving through. Find the King, see what he has to say.’
Her head swam with terror. A fight would break out. But it was not the idea of Howard and George grappling that scared her; it was the idea of him stumbling across Henrietta. Caroline drew herself up. Who would have thought? After all her envy and spite, she still cared for her erstwhile friend. She could not let this beast seize and devour Henrietta. She had to stop him.
She took another step toward her dressing room. ‘The King will give you no answer. He’ll tell you it is not his business to interfere with my servants.’ Her movement betrayed her. Howard glanced at the door.
‘I will get her. You cannot stop me. She’s mine.’ He gathered himself, ready to pounce.
‘Do it if you dare,’ she growled.
At the instant Howard leapt, the door burst open. Guards swarmed round him in a flurry of red. Their shouts and the jangle of metal drowned out his screams. He fought against the burly guards, straining toward the dressing room. He would never get there. Henrietta was safe.
‘Are you hurt, Your Majesty?’ a guard asked.
Caroline raised her chin and shook her head. ‘No. The fellow would not dare to hurt me.’
‘Shall I fetch the King?’
‘I see no reason to trouble him. Just make sure you dispose of this villain. Then post a sentry outside Mrs Howard’s room.’
The guard nodded. Kicking and yelling, Howard was dragged from the room.
Caroline stood with shaking legs, breathing fast as she listened to the tramp of boots retreating into the distance. At last, all was still. For a moment, she thought she would faint from the shock. But then she forced her feet into motion. She ran through the corridors, careless of her appearance. She didn’t stop until she was in Henrietta’s apartment, beside her bed. She picked up a candle and lit its wick in the embers of the fire. How peaceful Henrietta looked in sleep. Without worry to pinch it, her face was smooth and white as alabaster. The deep grey eyes were hidden by a sweep of lashes, twitching occasionally beneath the lids.
‘Mrs Howard,’ Caroline said softly. ‘Mrs Howard, I need to speak with you.’ She touched her arm.
Henrietta stirred. Blinking, she stared at Caroline as if she were the fragment of a dream. ‘Your Majesty? Is it the King? Is he well?’
‘He is perfectly well. It is your husband who brings me here.’
With a sharp intake of breath, Henrietta extinguished the candle. ‘Charles? What has he done?’
Casting the smoking candle aside, Caroline sat on the bed. ‘Your husband is currently being escorted from the palace by my guards. He broke into my room, seeking you.’
Henrietta clutched the bed-clothes. ‘No!’
‘I am afraid so. I come to warn you, my good Howard. You need to be prepared. I will try to help but . . . ’ She shrugged. ‘We have spoken of this before. The only material difference now is the King.’ Henrietta blinked at her. ‘Come, now. You know George. As he grows older, he is tetchy. He does not take kindly to things that cause him inconvenience or expense. I fear Mr Howard will cause him both.’
‘No.’ Henrietta shook her head, but trouble lit her eyes. ‘He would not . . . cast me off?’
He would if Caroline told him to. She shook off the ungenerous thought. ‘I doubt it. But be that as it may, you will need a security. Write to your boy in Paris. Tell him how his father shames the family. Surely by now he is of an age to understand, even to offer you some protection. Write him a letter and beg his return.’
Henrietta looked somewhere over Caroline’s shoulder. ‘I will,’ she said softly. ‘I will add it to the pile.’
Caroline followed the direction of her gaze to a stack of paper on the desk. Dipping the candle in the coals once more, she passed to inspect Henrietta’s correspondence. A heap of un-opened letters met her eyes, every one dotted with tears. They were franked, but had been returned by the recipient without even a note. Not one wax seal was cracked.
‘What about your boy?’ Henrietta asked gently. ‘They are of an age, our sons – but a month apart. Why have you not reclaimed him?’
It had been a long time since they had spoken confidentially. How Caroline yearned to unburden herself to someone who understood. She turned from the desk to face Henrietta. ‘It seems Fred is still not mine to claim. The King decides.’
‘Yes. Children only belong to us while they grow in our belly.’ They fell silent. ‘I could – I could ask George for you,’ Henrietta put in tentatively. ‘See if I can persuade him? I am sure he will listen to me.’
Rage took hold of her. She drew great, heaving breaths, stretching and hurting her stomach. Suddenly the light falling from the candle was not golden: it was pure red. This chit, persuade George? As if Caroline was incompetent, unloved! ‘You will do well to mind your own business, Mrs Howard.’
With her heart pounding, Caroline swept from the room and slammed the door behind her. Her bare feet slapped against the floor as she stormed back to her bedchamber. Why had she bothered? Protecting Mrs Howard, indeed! She was her husband’s whore, not a friend. It was weak and pathetic of her to make that mistake. She would never make it again.
Kensington Palace
Henrietta leant on Lord Chesterfield’s arm, her head bowed against the wind, as they made their way back from the menagerie. Bleached leaves swirled around their feet and rattled on the paving stones. Her friends thought the air would do her good, but her migraine was worse than ever. She gleaned no joy from watching the tiger pace around its pen, or the tortoises with their wrinkles and slow, creeping gate. She felt sick – maybe from pain, or sorrow, or fear. She could hardly tell the difference anymore. Before she stepped inside, she took one last look at the sky. It was a shock of vivid blue, fretted with bare branches. Even the heavens resembled a cage.
It was a relief to be out of the buffeting wind. In her absence, Lord Argyll had ordered a fire in every grate, making the room glow. Through the haze of smoke, the silhouettes of two more friends became clear: Mr Gay and Dr Arbuthnot.
Henrietta let go of Chesterfield and flung toward them. ‘You came! Thank God.’
Gay embraced her. ‘As if I could desert you at such a time.’
Dr Arbuthnot inspected her eyes and recommended some pills for her headaches. ‘I wish you would reconsider that operation we spoke of. It may even help your hearing.’
‘I will. But I am not equal to any procedure yet.’ Henrietta closed her eyes, feeling pain throb beneath their lids. Whatever else she lacked, she had good friends. She must be grateful for that. They sat her down before the fire and pressed warm ale into her hands.
‘I spoke with your brother John and your family’s lawyer, Mr Welwood, as you asked me to,’ Lord Argyll said. ‘We have established that a divorce is far too expensive, even for a lady of your means. And as for the disgrace it would entail . . . I do not see the King responding well to it. He might even stop your allowance.’
Disappointment soured her mouth. Would she never be free of that villain? ‘I expected you to say as much. But legal separation – surely I have some hope there?’
Lord Argyll studied the floor, his hands clasped. ‘That would go through the church courts. We would have to prove adultery and life-threatening cruelty.’
‘I can!’ Henrietta flared up. The sudden burst of emotion and noise made her head swim. ‘God knows, that’s all I have had in my marriage!’
‘But can you prove it?’ Lord Argyll asked. ‘Did anyone see?’
‘No. I took great care that no one should.’
Everyone fell silent. The fires sizzled.
Henrietta shifted in her seat. Were they really telling her that she was tethered to Charles, even after his assault on Caroline? ‘Is there no hope for me?’
Lord Argyll patted her hand. ‘I did not say that. Welwood told me there is such a thing as a private deed of separation. A kind of informal divorce, if you will. Between you and your brother, it might be affordable.’
Grimacing against pain, Henrietta tried to think. ‘What would that mean? Would Charles still have a claim on me?’
‘Nothing beyond the terms written in the deed.’
‘An agreement,’ she muttered. ‘Knowing Charles, that will not come cheap. If he even consents to sign it.’
Lord Argyll pursed his lips. ‘There is one piece of good news for you. Do you remember your neighbours from Beak Street? Mrs Hall and Mrs Cell?’
Fragments of memory returned, sharp and jagged. Henrietta refused to let her mind wind back to that time; it was too dangerous there. ‘I recognise the names. I think they looked after Henry when I went out to get work. Gave me dinner, sometimes.’
‘They did. They are good women. We had difficulty finding them, since they knew you by the name of Mrs Smith.’
Henrietta snorted. She had forgotten her alias, assumed to avoid Charles’s creditors. ‘Yes, they would.’
‘But they remembered you vividly. With pity.’ Lord Argyll cleared his throat. ‘Most people would have nothing to do with a case like this. You must know how these proceedings are frowned upon – even when the claim is honest. Women suing for separation are described as blasphemous troublemakers.’
Henrietta gave a lopsided grin. ‘That’s me, my lord. Wouldn’t you agree?’
He patted her hand again, making the ale jig in her tankard. ‘No one here thinks that. And neither do your neighbours. That’s why they’re willing to come forward and say a few words on your behalf. Testify to your good character.’
Lord Chesterfield bit his lower lip with stained teeth. ‘The King will not like this. It’s better than divorce, but he still will not approve.’
Henrietta downed a sip of ale. Nausea rose and pushed it back up in her throat. ‘The King does not approve of anything I do lately,’ she spluttered. ‘In this I must please myself, not him.’
The door opened. Everyone looked up to see Daniel usher in Lady Betty and Mr Berkeley. Here was another thing George would not like. They took an immense risk visiting the palace after their brother the Admiral had been dismissed in such disgrace. Somewhere, in the fog of her misery, she felt a gleam of gratitude.
‘Welcome, my dears.’ She put out her hand to them. ‘How brave of you to come! Forgive me for not rising to greet you, my head . . . ’
Lady Betty clasped her fingers. ‘No trouble at all, my love. You rest.’
Berkeley did not lean on a cane this evening. He looked unsure of his welcome. As his sister moved aside, he took up Henrietta’s hand and pressed it briefly to his lips.
Embarrassment squirmed in her stomach. She had been so rude to him the last time they met, at Leicester House. ‘It is good to see you without a stick, Mr Berkeley. I trust your gout is better?’
His dark eyes penetrated hers. ‘It is, I thank you. But Mrs Howard, I would gladly have it back if it could spare you your pain.’
‘Well, it cannot.’
Why was she so abrupt with him? She did not mean to be. Everything was so wretched, and she only made it worse. She wanted Berkeley’s friendship, she even admired him, yet she brushed him off like a louse. It was instinct, she supposed. Self-preservation. Every time she trusted a man, he slid a knife between her ribs.
Dinner was announced. Gay offered her his arm and helped her hobble out to the table.
The scent of roast lark drifting from the kitchens made her queasy, but she would see the charade through. She had planned a fine spread for her friends, far superior to the offerings at her first supper parties so long ago. There was potted pork, pheasant with prune sauce, artichokes and pigeon pie.
She toyed with her food while chatter and the sound of chinking glasses buzzed around her. She cut her meat into tiny pieces, careful not to scrape the cutlery against her precious porcelain. Suddenly, she felt as if she was being watched. She raised her eyes from the plate. Berkeley stared back at her.
‘I have been thinking, Mrs Howard, about your poor niece and nephew.’ Berkeley dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘Your brother must struggle to care for them, without his wife by his side. Why do you not have them here?’
A hard lump rose in her throat at the memory of Dorothy and Jack. She would give much to see them again.
‘I discussed the possibility when I met with Mrs Howard’s brother,’ Lord Argyll confessed. He took another sip of wine. ‘He was very agreeable to it. As soon as this dreadful business with Mr Howard is finished, he means to send the little girl here.’
There it was again: hope, irrepressible this time. Dorothy, the little image of her beloved mother. Family. A future. If only she could be sure that the dream wouldn’t recoil upon her like all the rest. She set down her knife and fork. ‘I would like that of all things. I mean to sign Marble Hill over to Dorothy, once it is complete. She needs property of her own, a place she can be safe.’ She sighed, struggling not to let it turn into a sob. ‘Lord knows, I will never get there.’
‘Do not despair,’ Berkeley urged.
‘If this deed of separation we plan comes through,’ said Lord Argyll, ‘you could – ’
A hammer on the door made them all jump. Raised voices rang in the hallway. Before Henrietta could get to her feet, a rough-looking man burst into the room. He put his shabby hat in his hands and sketched them the briefest of bows. ‘Missus Howard?’
Berkeley rose, scarlet with displeasure. ‘Who the devil are you to ask?’
‘A messenger from Mister Howard, I’ll have you know.’
Henrietta fell back in her chair. Not again . . .
‘No person here cares what Mr Howard has to say,’ Berkeley told him. ‘Take your business elsewhere.’
A sickening thought lodged within her. ‘No, let him speak! Is it Henry? Is my son well?’
The impertinent messenger laughed. ‘Lord, yes, it ain’t about him. It’s about the money.’
‘What money?’
‘Twelve ’undred pounds a year for the upkeep of Audley End House. Master don’t have it and says you’re to pay it. I’m to get your word before dinner.’ His beady eyes travelled to the clock. ‘Time presses, ma’am.’
Incredulity snatched her breath. She should not be surprised, but Charles always found new ways to astonish her with his impudence.
‘Your master can pay it from his rents,’ Berkeley shouted, ‘like any other gentleman.’ Then he grimaced. ‘I forget myself. That term does not apply to your master.’
Despite everything, Henrietta glowed. She was pleased to have him so warmly on her side.
‘My master don’t even have four-’undred pounds a year,’ the messenger protested. ‘Thanks to his wife’s brother, who snuck away her dowry.’
‘When I lived with your master, I didn’t have four-hundred pence a year,’ Henrietta said. ‘Yet I managed to feed myself and my child.’
Lord Argyll cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Howard, if I may . . .’
She glared at the messenger. ‘Leave us.’
‘I’m not to go back without an answer.’
Berkeley hobbled at him, fist raised. ‘You’ll go back with a good hiding if you’re not careful!’
Whimpering, the messenger scuttled from the room. Berkeley banged the door shut behind him.
Lord Argyll came swiftly to Henrietta’s side. ‘Please, Mrs Howard, consider this request. You must write to your husband.’ She gaped at him. ‘I know,’ he said hurriedly, ‘it is impertinent and grossly unfair to make you pay for the upkeep of his house. But dwell upon it. If you agree, Mr Howard may sign the deed of separation. Would this not be the perfect bait to force his hand?’
He was right. There was only one way to win Charles, and that was with money.
‘I do not have it,’ she gasped. ‘I cannot afford that much. Not unless I tear down Marble Hill . . .’ The very thought rubbed her raw with loss.
Lord Argyll coughed again. ‘I do not mean to be indelicate but . . . Surely, the King might . . .’
Henrietta looked down, her cheeks scarlet. ‘No! I cannot ask him for the money. He is not pleased with me, after the debacle with Compton.’
‘What about the Queen?’ Lady Betty said. ‘Can we try her?’
Pride beat frantically in Henrietta’s chest. Ask Caroline for another favour? She saw the maze at Herrenhausen, a twisted labyrinth of box hedge. She remembered the pure white doves at the centre and a young princess, touched with pity. That woman could not be dead. Years had scored lines into her face and fat had swamped the perfect figure, but surely, somewhere beneath all the majesty, there was that kind heart which had spoken to hers?
‘Try the Queen then, Lord Argyll,’ she whispered. ‘Once again, she is my only hope.’