Henrietta’s dream stood before her, complete and flawless. Marble Hill rose up in proud white stucco and cast its shadow over her companions: Dorothy, Gay, Pope, Lady Betty and Berkeley.
‘Aunt Hetty, why are you crying?’ She reached down and clasped Dorothy’s hand. She did not want to ruin the moment with speech. She was content to listen to the men hollering from their barges and the clop of dray horses negotiating the tow path. Underneath all the noise flowed a note of birdsong, golden and sweet. Sound was pure here. Henrietta didn’t struggle to catch a pitch or live in a world of muted voices. Perhaps Dr Arbuthnot’s treatments had worked after all. ‘Aunt Hetty?’
‘I am happy, my love.’ Her words came out in a sigh. She was like a girl in love; stunned, breathless. ‘I suppose I never really thought it would happen.’
Dorothy tugged at the ribbons securing her hat. ‘That’s silly. You paid money for the house and you ordered it. Of course it was built.’ Let her go on believing that. At ten years old, Dorothy would not understand that life could crush even the most reasonable plans.
Music rose from the river. Henrietta turned as a gilded barge drifted past, packed with courtiers. Ladies held up parasols to shield their delicate complexions from the sun.
‘The yearly trip to Hampton Court.’ Lady Betty eyed Henrietta askance. ‘Will you follow them, or stay here?’
She went giddy. She placed her free hand against the wall of her new house, which was warm like fresh baked bread. How to explain that the concept of total freedom was terrifying to one who had lived so long in a cage?
‘I will have to ask the Queen’s permission to retire from my post. She must release me.’
It would take a great deal of courage to make the request. And what would George think? Would he keep paying her if he did not see her, day after day? Without his generosity, she could not hold up the terms specified in her deed of separation. She was at his mercy.
Henrietta sighed, astonished to think how times had changed. Who would have imagined, all those years ago in Herrenhausen, that she would ever beg to leave the court?
‘Come,’ said Gay. ‘Show us inside.’
The door was surrounded by rustic keystones and topped with a fanlight. Henrietta studied every tiny detail as she led her guests through, astonished to see her drawings brought to life. They entered the large square hall. It was fitted out in Roman style, with four Corinthian pillars supporting the ceiling. Black and white flags spread over the floor, reflected in two mirrors. Light flooded through the room, making the yellow walls glow like honey. Henrietta sighed, content.
‘Palladian style,’ Berkeley observed. ‘Everything structured and orderly.’
Lady Betty widened her eyes. ‘It is more masculine than I expected, my dear. Where are all your pretty things?’
Henrietta laughed. ‘Come and see.’ She took them through to another room where they stopped and gasped. Set off against snow-white panelling, George’s gift of mahogany had been shaped into a staircase. Its finely turned balustrades glowed from extensive polishing. Swirling floral motifs were carved into the side of thick, deep steps. Without waiting, Fop and Marquise pushed past Henrietta’s skirts and hobbled up the stairs, their paws scrabbling on the wood. They were starting to show their age. ‘Shall we follow?’ Henrietta hitched her skirts and mounted the staircase. The bannister was cool and silky beneath her hand. This was hers; not a stairway creeping down to the servant’s quarters or a fine case she tip-toed up in the wake of the Queen.
Nerves and a sudden shyness arrested her as they turned right into the Great Room. She walked over to the lacquered black screen in the corner and awaited her guests’ reaction. Everyone stared. Lady Betty’s head tilted back, taking in the two-storey room of intricate white moulding and burnished gilt. A flock of golden cupids soared over the marble fireplace. On the pristine walls hung paintings by Van Dyke; Stuart kings and queens the house of Hanover had replaced. Claret curtains framed a view of the grounds.
‘Is it . . . too much?’
Lady Betty placed a hand to her breast. ‘My dear . . . It takes my breath away.’ She passed to one of Henrietta’s gold and marble side tables, which were decorated with peacocks.
Pope watched her. ‘Ah, the peacock. Symbol of the goddess Hera – or do you favour Juno?’
Henrietta blushed, feeling Berkeley’s eyes upon her. ‘Come, now. You are too much of a poet. Goddess of love and marriage? In my house? I may be pushing a little out of my place with this room, but I would not go so far as that.’
‘You have an exalted place,’ Berkeley said. ‘Ladies of your position have been the grandest in the land. You need not disclaim.’
‘I seek no distinction.’
Berkeley disarmed her with his lopsided smile. ‘Perhaps you should.’
Her laugh was brittle, hopelessly artificial. ‘What nonsense you talk, Mr Berkeley.’
Lady Betty flicked her gaze between them and cleared her throat. ‘Well, the peacock tables are exquisite, whatever they symbolise. Shall we go downstairs and eat? I saw some fruit tarts I am sure Miss Hobart will do justice to.’
Dorothy squealed and ran ahead, the dogs galloping at her heels. The adults filtered out behind, with Henrietta and Berkeley at the rear.
‘Will you not take my arm?’ He offered his free one. ‘I may walk with the aid of a stick, but I am not an invalid.’ Cautiously, she slipped her hand beneath his elbow. Her palm felt large, strangely clumsy. ‘I wonder at your decision,’ Berkley said, looking about him. ‘This is such a lovely house. Why won’t you leave the King and take up permanent residence?’
Henrietta hated it when he spoke to her of the King. She tried another laugh, but it came out as stupid as the first one. ‘Does one do that, Mr Berkeley? Simply leave a King? Surely I must wait to be dismissed.’
‘His recent behaviour suggests you will be.’
She reared back, stung. Was George’s cooling affection so obvious? ‘If we are speaking candidly, sir, I must say I wonder at you, too. Why do you visit court? You have no place and your brother was pushed out of the Admiralty years ago. I run a great risk in simply allowing you here. The King loathes the very name of Berkeley. Why stay to have him ignore you?’
His eyes, warm as a cup of chocolate, turned on her. ‘I thought that was obvious. I stay for you.’
She stumbled on the step. The others were far ahead now, almost in the entrance hall. Berkley paused at her side, watching her intently. ‘Goodness.’ Her heart thumped, pushing all anger from her body. ‘How you flatter me. What would the King think?’
Nothing pleasant, she feared. He had told her never to see the Berkeleys again. She was playing with fire merely by asking them to visit. If he saw this man flirting with her . . .
‘You do not love the King.’ He reached out and pressed her hand.
Henrietta closed her eyes, her breath jagged. ‘I am under the King’s protection.’
‘Would you consider mine?’
Her eyes snapped open. ‘What – what do you mean?’
‘Leave the King. I will care for you.’
No man had ever looked at her the way he did, right now, not even George. Her chest clenched. Could she trust it? Of course not. That was not how the world worked. This man did not really know her; he was dreaming. She pulled her hand from his and buried it under her apron.
‘Mr Berkeley, perhaps you do not understand the terms of my separation. My husband has no right to me or my goods but I am, to all other extents and purposes, still his. I am not free to remarry, nor leave the King and Queen.’
He leaned close to whisper. ‘I am willing to endure any kind of shame or scandal for you.’
Her heart thrilled, but she shook her head. ‘You misjudge me, sir. My position with the King is not of my own creation. I was pushed, through duty and necessity, into his bed. I will not be mistress to two men.’ She thought of Henry and his disapproval. It hardened her resolution. ‘I have some pride.’
To her surprise, he laughed. ‘Oh, yes. I am coming to know your pride very well. But let me take some hope. May I come to see you privately, here, at Marble Hill?’
For the first time, she considered him seriously. She had not thought him in earnest before; only a man wooing her for his party. But now she saw the feelings bare on his face and realised that the attentions she had taken for gallantry were a symptom of something deeper. Something she did not want. Experience had taught her the idiocy of committing herself into the hands of men. ‘You will be wooing as a hopeless knight errant, sir. My niece will remain with us at all times and you will receive nothing but smiles from me.’
He bowed. ‘Ah, a smile. That, my dear lady, is all I ask.’
Hampton Court
They entered the Public Eating Room to a flourish of trumpets. The crowd buzzed, pressing against a wooden rail that held them back. Henrietta kept her eyes on Caroline’s train as it whispered over the floor in flashes of gold. The smell of meat drifted on the air, curdling with the perfume of courtiers.
Sunlight flooded through the tall windows, sparkling on silver plate. Pyramids of crystallised fruit adorned the table, a welcome splash of colour next to the dull green walls. This meal would be another long, arduous task. Henrietta’s legs and lower back twinged in anticipation of standing for hours. She was only grateful that her hearing impediment dulled the roar of chatter and whining notes from the band.
She no longer felt part of the fabric of court; her mind was always elsewhere, rowing down the river to Marble Hill, strolling in the orchard. It was time to leave. No matter how scared she was, she had to find a chance to speak to Caroline and George. She had to make an effort, at least one bid, to be free.
The King and Queen took their armchairs. Prince Frederick and the elder princesses sat down on plush seats, while the little ones took stools. Dishes of stewed venison and potted pork came into the room, passed from hand to hand through the servant’s chain of command. Henrietta braced herself to receive a platter; it was heavy and hot to the touch. She removed the silver cover, leaning back as steam engulfed her face. Then she passed it on for Lady Bristol to carve.
After the food had been tasted for poison, Caroline and George were served on bended knee. The flow of food kept coming. Henrietta couldn’t stop for a moment. When the first course was finally on the table, a mountain of flesh with rich sauces, Caroline tapped a knife against her glass. A page scuttled forward, picked it up and handed it to Henrietta. With sweat pouring down her forehead, Henrietta filled it from a jug.
As she fell back into rank, a flicker of movement behind the rail caught her eye. She turned her head and blinked. Surely not? But it was: a man in the Howard livery. The glass nearly slipped from her fingers. She slopped a little wine over the top as she passed it to Lady Bristol.
‘Careless girl,’ the elder woman muttered.
The man searched the room, clearly looking for something. Someone. Her.
Henrietta served the second course mechanically, her eyes fixed on him. He was well turned out and had a patient, resigned air as he leant on the rail. He was too neat to be one of Charles’s servants. He must belong to Charles’s brother, the Earl Edward. Fear clattered in her head like a pebble in a jar. Was Henry ill? Did Charles want more money?
There was a long, low creak that cut through her worry and set her teeth on edge. It sounded like trees groaning in a storm, but the weather was hot and still. Henrietta turned just in time to see the mahogany rail bend and splinter to pieces. With an almighty cry, people tumbled through the gap, wig over heel. Ladies’ skirts flew into the air, flashing thighs and unmentionables right before the royals. Caroline put down her cutlery and laughed. While guards surged forward to control the chaos, Henrietta seized her moment. She slipped out of line and passed behind the other household servants.
The man in Howard livery darted forward to meet her. He bobbed a hurried bow. ‘My lady.’
‘What is it? Did the Earl send you?’
He hesitated.
‘Quick, man!’ Henrietta glanced over her shoulder. ‘They are settling down, I must get back to my place.’
‘The Earl that was, your brother-in-law. He is – he is dead, my lady.’
She started. ‘Dead?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘I am very sad to hear it. I hope he did not suffer?’ Edward had been a good man, despite his brother. He had taken Henry in when they went to Hanover and he would always have her thanks for that.
‘No. The end was swift. But I come to tell you of his Will. He left the remainder of his fortune to you, my lady. Three thousand pounds.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘He did not want it going to . . . other relatives.’
Three thousand pounds! With this money, and Marble Hill complete, perhaps she could afford to retire from court. Live, fully, as herself. The dreams she had kept caged for so long flexed their wings. Freedom. Independence.
Her hopes jerked back as the chains around their ankles reached full length. Caroline. She must ask Caroline first.
‘I am touched by his remembrance. Thank you for letting me know.’
‘My late master’s lawyer will call on you, my lady – ’
Henrietta stole a glance at the table. She had to go back. ‘Yes, yes. You must not call me your lady.’ She looked at Caroline’s smiling face, flanked by sparkling diamond earrings. ‘I am a mere Woman of the Bedchamber.’
‘But – my – my Lady Suffolk . . .’
She moved closer. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The man crumpled his hat in his hands. ‘My master died with no living issue. Your husband . . .’
Understanding slammed into her. She gasped. ‘Charles is the Earl now. Lord Suffolk.’
The servant nodded. ‘And you are Lady Suffolk.’
The hot room whirled. Was it possible? Had she risen from the ashes of poverty and humiliation to become a countess? ‘My husband and I are separated,’ she told him. ‘Surely I am not entitled to . . .’
The man flushed. ‘The matter has been examined. The title is yours.’
It hit her bloodstream like a shot of neat gin. At long last, her marriage to Charles had brought her something worth having. A countess could not be a Woman of the Bedchamber. Caroline would have to let her go or promote her. She glanced back at Caroline, a wry smile twitching the corner of her lips. Little did her royal mistress suspect, as she popped a cooked ortolan into her mouth, that her days of crowing over Henrietta were at an end.
St James’s Palace
Could the day get any worse? Caroline closed her eyes as the door clicked again, willing the new visitor away. These people were like woodpeckers; hammering insistently at her composure. Couldn’t they leave her in peace? She cracked open her eyelids and saw Walpole waiting in the corner. She exhaled, relieved. He would support her against Fred’s youthful obstinacy. ‘Ah, here is our minister. Let him make you see reason, if you will not listen to your mother.’
Fred’s eyes darted away like two silver fish. ‘Can we continue this conversation another time? In private?’
‘No. We will finish it now. You have gone too far, Frederick. It is one thing to play jokes on the servants, but I will not have you harassing people outside of the palace.’ She looked him up and down, trying to make him out. It was hard to believe the slim, urbane young man before her could behave with such wild animal spirits. Already he had formed a riotous ‘Henry the Fifth’ club and lost his seal to a woman of pleasure in St James’s Park. ‘Come, Fred. You know better than this. Tussling with the night-watch? Smashing windows? Is this how a prince behaves?’
He sniffed. ‘No one objected to my behaviour in Hanover.’
‘This is not Hanover. Hanover is a dunghill compared with England.’
‘At least in Hanover I had an establishment. The King won’t even give me my own house.’
‘This is not about the King. This is about your conduct. You have offended peers. People whose children will make up your parliament one day. You must apologise to Lord and Lady Buckingham for damaging their property.’
Those wide, grey eyes gleamed like mercury. Caroline had a feeling Fred was made of that liquid; ever changeable, poisonous in large doses. ‘They should apologise to me,’ he said loftily. ‘Their men fired grapeshot, you know. I could have been killed.’
‘A ball through the skull might have knocked some sense into you!’ she snapped.
‘My grandfather never quarrelled with my conduct.’
Caroline gasped, indignant. Of all the dirty, mean tricks! He was purposefully goading her. Well, two could play at that game. She had years of experience on him. ‘Your grandfather was an ass. The greatest ass and beast that ever lived. You were a fool to love him. He did not correct your behaviour because he wanted you to fail. Do you think he was trying to make you into the perfect prince? No. He wanted you to grow into a torment to your father.’
Rage contorted Fred’s features. Reddening up to his ears, he turned his back on her and stormed out of the room. As the door slammed, Caroline sagged into a chair. Had she gone too far?
Fred did not understand the situation – how could he? In his memory, Georg Ludwig was a welcome face, the only family member who came to visit his lonely home in Hanover. He could not grasp why his parents hated his grandfather. He never saw little Georgie on his deathbed, or his young mother weeping her heart out.
‘I have dropped the leading strings with that one,’ she told Walpole as he sat down opposite her. ‘I’ll never reclaim him. I was a ninny to think he would slot right back into the family.’
Walpole pushed his legs out before him and laced his fingers together over his stomach. ‘I would not mourn the loss of his regard. He is childish, obsessed with flattery.’
‘He may grow out of it.’ Idly, she picked up a hand mirror and regarded herself. Her once porcelain skin was blotchy and red. Sweat dripped off her forehead. She wound a curl of limp hair round her index finger. At this rate, she would lose both her son and her husband. Surely George wouldn’t look upon this flabby monstrosity with desire for much longer?
How had it come to this? A short time ago, she had held everything safe in the palm of her hand. Now the days brought nothing but trial and pain. She felt like an old woman; bereft and tired, staring at the bony face of death. It terrified her. She was only forty-eight.
‘You have heard, I suppose, that I have an opportunity to lose my rival?’ She cocked an eyebrow at Walpole. ‘Howard has become a countess. I can either promote her or let her retire.’
Walpole smacked his lips together. ‘Well, promote her. Mistress of the Robes would do nicely. Let her play with silk and muslins – it will distract her from politics.’
She stared at him. ‘Promote her? She is a fruit ripe to drop. I must push her out before she grows too mighty, too . . .’ Beautiful. The word was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it there.
‘It is not like you to fear a little competition.’
No, but she had never been in this much pain before. The nub on her stomach burned and gout pricked at her skin like broken glass, day after day. Her spirits were exhausted. It was all she could do to stand upright. But she could never tell Walpole that.
‘You still have influence with the King,’ he continued, rubbing his nose. ‘He is nothing if not a creature of routine – and you are his oldest habit. You must not expect the lusts of youth at your age. Rely on your head for managing him if your charms no longer work.’
She yearned to strike him for his insolence, but how could she? He was only telling the truth. It was not fair. Inside she was still that curvaceous beauty who could charm George into anything with a smile. ‘How you flatter me, Sir Robert.’
His black eyebrows wiggled. ‘Come, you are a rational creature. And you know it is in your interest to keep Howard close. Make it up with her, if you can. Be bosom companions once more.’
She could never do it. Every night George visited Henrietta’s apartments was a slap in Caroline’s face. ‘My mother’s second husband had a mistress,’ she murmured. ‘An infernal strumpet. She was with him before we came to the country, and she kept her claws in all through the marriage.’ Memories oppressed her; her ribs seemed to cave in. ‘It was she who took all his goods and love. My mother received nothing but bruises.’
‘With all respect, Your Majesty, your mother should have befriended the harlot. Think of it. The King will keep a mistress, no matter what you do. Better to have my Lady Suffolk: deaf, mild and impotent. The King will never take her political advice now, no matter how the Tories court and cajole her. If you push the woman away . . .’ Walpole blew out his breath. ‘I can’t imagine what young, ambitious vixen the King might take up with.’
Maybe he was right. Why had she not thought of this? Jealousy had blinded her as effectually as a fever. Wise queens made their resentment yield to prudence, their passion to interest. ‘Better the devil you know.’
‘Precisely.’
She swallowed her gorge. Was she really reduced to this? Clutching at her husband by the tails of his coat; bestowing honours on the trull who slept in his bed. She, who had once ruled them all. ‘I thank you for your honest advice. I’m sure when I have had time to digest it, I will not want to kick you as heartily as I do now.’