Henrietta assessed Caroline’s mantua, checking her subordinates had performed their duties. She nodded her approval. The taffeta was steamed and someone had brushed all the grease out from the lace with bran. They dressed Caroline in her private bedchamber, these days; a room of light, wood panels and gold carving.
Outside, metal clanged and saws rasped as workmen built a new wing for Prince William to entertain his teenage friends. Though George maintained he couldn’t increase Fred’s allowance and that the proposed excises had been entirely necessary for the economy, he was sparing no expense on his second son. Nothing but the finest materials – a whole suite of blue mohair.
Caroline stood by the bed like a dress-maker’s poppet. Her chemise lay smooth and white against her wrinkled, greying skin. Only canvas stays, like those for a child, gave her body any shape. But without boning she was wobbly, ever shifting, her flesh like uncooked dough. Silver clocked stockings stretched taut over her feet. Beneath, the skin was swollen and shiny, reminding Henrietta of overripe fruit. Garters sat above her knees, but she did not need them to hold her stockings up; the difficulty would be peeling the fabric away from her legs at night. She winced as the ladies tied the tapes of her panniers, settling a weight of whalebone and iron on her hips. It seemed a shame to hurt her so in the cause of fashion. She was wide enough without the cage. Once Henrietta had envied her looks. She had thought the court and the princess the very essence of magic, glittering like diamonds, but now she scratched the surface and found it was mere paste.
She turned her attention to the jewel box, deciding which would go best with Caroline’s dusky lavender gown. A silver broach for the bodice, amethysts for the ears. She laid them out on a square of velvet and presented them for Mrs Clayton to fasten on. How saggy and loose Caroline’s neck looked above the sleek bodice of her dress. Her once magnificent bosom still drew the eye, but it was no longer a pleasure to look at. Henrietta tilted her head. A necklace wouldn’t do; it would only highlight the flaws. A fichu was the only option. She fetched one and smoothed the material around Caroline’s neck. It felt like an act of charity to cover the aging Queen’s shame. As she went to tuck the fichu down the bodice, their eyes met. The sharp blue of Caroline’s irises had drained; they were watery, bleeding into the whites. They held a desperate question Henrietta could not answer. Hurriedly, she looked away.
Just then the door slammed open and George swept into the room. All the ladies fell into curtseys. Without speaking, he stalked over, put up a hand and ripped the fichu from Caroline’s neck. She exclaimed as the material whispered across her skin.
‘Get rid of this trash, Lady Suffolk,’ George demanded. He crumpled the fichu in his hand and tossed it to the floor. ‘You only seek to hide the Queen’s neck because your own is ugly.’
The ladies gasped and tittered. Mrs Clayton pushed to the front, anxious to see.
Henrietta found his arrows did not hurt her; she had developed a shield. ‘I was not hiding her neck,’ she muttered beneath her breath. ‘I was protecting it. I perceived Your Majesty was in one of your rages and feared you may worry the Queen by the jugular.’
George’s eyes popped. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing, Your Majesty.’
What had happened to the George who wept to think of Henrietta parted from her son? Where was the prince who had showered her with gifts? Age changed a man, it seemed. Patience grew short, opinions became set in stone. As the years of his life fell away, there was less room for manoeuvre.
Caroline’s hands fluttered like tiny birds. ‘Softly now, George. There’s no need to shout at Lady Suffolk. I asked for the garment, but of course I will leave it off if you wish.’
‘You need to keep your staff in better order, madam,’ he barked.
Caroline’s voice rose up. ‘The employees of my household are my own business. Lady Suffolk has been with me for years.’
Henrietta stared at her; that sloping nose, the defiant lift of her thin eyebrows. Where had this spirited defence come from? A few years ago, Caroline would have been glad to see Henrietta dressed down. Now she was protecting her.
‘More fool you! She is not a loyal servant. You know she was against our Excise Bill. Why do you keep her?’
Caroline burst into tears. Mrs Clayton stopped snickering and turned white. The Queen had never cried over trifles before. ‘Is it not enough that my own daughter is being taken from me?’ she sniffed, eyes blazing. ‘Can’t you let me keep one attendant? Is that so much to ask?’
Henrietta retrieved a handkerchief and pressed it into Caroline’s hand. She felt ashamed. This was a sick woman, desperate to keep a shred of familiarity in her disintegrating life. She should be taking better care of her . . .
A knock at the door.
‘Who the deuce is that?’ George ripped off a shoe and threw it at the startled page who appeared behind the jamb.
‘F-forgive me, Your Majesty,’ the boy stuttered as he ducked. His wide, brown eyes took in the outraged King and the weeping Queen. ‘They told me the Queen was walking in the gardens with the princesses.’
‘And so I should be,’ said Caroline, blotting her face. ‘I was delayed. Come in, child, do not be afraid.’
Gingerly, the page picked up George’s scuffed shoe and sloped into the royal presence. He regarded the King like the tiger in Kensington’s menagerie.
Henrietta took pity on him. ‘Who have you come for?’ she asked gently. ‘You do not want the Queen, if you thought she was walking outside?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I have a message for you, my lady.’
Her field of vision narrowed, focusing on the note in his hand. She held out a trembling palm for it. She did not recognise the writing. She tucked it into her pockets, where it hung burning against her thigh.
‘I am ready,’ Caroline announced. ‘I will walk with my daughters. You may retire to read your letter, Lady Suffolk.’
Bobbing a curtsey, Henrietta pressed a coin into the page’s palm and grabbed his shoulder, steering him out of the room with her.
‘Aye, get off with you! Look how you have upset your kind mistress!’ George’s voice blared behind them. Henrietta kept walking without looking back. Something slammed into the wall as she crossed the threshold – perhaps George’s other shoe.
When they were safe behind the closed door of the supper room, she turned to the boy, eager with questions. But the moment her hand left his shoulder he twisted and fled. Sighing, she settled herself into a crimson chair beside the empty fireplace.
She took the letter from her pocket and held it on her lap. Her index finger dithered over the seal, pressing the wax imprint. She took a breath and cracked it open.
It was from a law firm in Saffron Walden, near Audley End House. Her eyes skittered over the page. She would find it in a moment: some new demand from Charles, some clause that made their separation invalid. But then she focused on a word and her eyes skidded to a halt. Was it possible? She leapt up and stumbled over to the window, holding her letter under a pool of sunlight. Dear God! Charles was dead!
She dropped to her knees. Those hands that hit her were cold and still; that black heart extinguished. Finally, the chain coiled about her waist fell rattling to the floor. He was dead, and she was free of him.
St James’s Palace
Of all the things Caroline had wanted for Anne, this was not one of them. Iced with diamonds, the princess drifted through the Chapel Royal. Blue silk swathed her frame, glinting where its silver embroidery caught the candlelight. Pearls fastened a cape to her shoulders. Her train flowed on for six yards, a shimmering river born by ten bridesmaids. Anne’s golden hair glowed beneath her coronet. She had desired so much more than that delicate headpiece: a crown or sceptre. She would get neither.
Mr Handel’s music swelled, trembling through the crowd. Crimson taffeta, studded with golden roses, transformed the chapel into a jewellery box. There were galleons, fringes, gilt lustres and tassels; everything Caroline could find to make the space beautiful. But there was no disguising that bridegroom. From her throne beside the altar, Caroline dissected him with her eyes. His face was not bad; pleasingly round with frank, arching brows and a small mouth. His chocolate eyes reminded her of William’s spaniels. But if this poor Prince of Orange had been born a dog, he would have been shot. His body sprawled at odd angles like a tree twisted at the root. A peruke wig covered his hunched shoulder, yet it could not hide his odd proportions; a short waist, legs that seemed entirely thigh with no calf at all. Could such a monstrosity sire children? If so, what sort of animals would they be?
Caroline had wanted a handsome, dashing prince for her Anne. A man who would be strong and protect her, not one that fell ill with pneumonia at a breath of English wind. Fred appeared stunningly handsome by comparison, coated in cloth of gold. Only his thunderous expression marred his appearance as he escorted Anne toward her bridegroom, taking care to let only the tips of her fingers rest on his arm. His grey eyes, hard as steel, fixed on Caroline. Where is my wedding? they asked. Where is my bride; my regular allowance? She did not have room for his grievances. She was full to the brim with her own sorrows.
Pain rumbled through her stomach, down her legs. The old complaints. She would have to sit for hours yet, pretending she was well. But at least she did not have to feign happiness. George snuffled beside her. From beneath their canopy of state, little Mary and Louisa blubbered too. At last, Caroline could cry. All her fine dreams turned to this: a husband bored of her, a son who hated her and her daughter, married to a baboon.
Fatigue wrapped Caroline in a suffocating embrace as they escorted the newlyweds to their bedchamber. She had no stomach for wedding traditions: the loving posset; tossing stockings to see who would marry next. It was bad enough that Anne had to climb into bed beside this mangled combination of ill-fitting limbs. Could they not leave her alone with her shame?
‘I have put up a screen.’ George leaned in and spoke to her from the corner of his mouth. ‘He can get changed behind a curtain and just slip into bed from there. The people will only see his cap and a flash of brocade nightgown.’ Was it compassion, or embarrassment that made George so considerate? She hardly cared.
Courtiers gathered round the bed, each with an orange ribbon or cockade in honour of the groom. George scowled as he gripped the prince’s short arm and steered him behind the curtain. Caroline, Emily and Carrie took Anne, drooping and ring-eyed from exhaustion, into a separate chamber to undress her.
The door was hardly closed before Emily burst out. ‘Lord, Anne! Nothing on earth would induce me to marry that monster! Whatever will you do, with his pudgy fingers touching you?’
Quick as lightning, Caroline spun and slapped her around the ear. ‘Insolent wench!’
Anne swallowed and held up her arms to be unlaced. ‘Do not concern yourself, Mama. I am satisfied. He seems to be a good man and I will try to make him happy.’
Carrie sidled up to her sister and helped the ladies take off her gown. ‘To be sure, his figure is not good. But I believe, in your situation, I should have come to the same resolution.’
‘Exactly. Emily is only bitter. No man, monstrous or not, will take her.’ Caroline spoke with a cheerfulness she did not feel. Now Emily had planted the image, she saw it: Anne’s tender young flesh and his gnarly body, entwined.
Emily rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. Soon I will be in Bath, with all the beaux falling at my feet. But I would rather stay single than choose a husband from the Orange menagerie.’
Anne looked tiny and fragile in her nightgown. Caroline pushed forward and embraced her.
‘I have never had any sorrows over you, dear heart. Even this first one is blended with pleasure. Orange seems a good man and will always be a favourite with me.’ How easily the lies slid from her tongue. But there was no point in crying over what might have been. Anne had made her bed now, and there was nothing to do but teach her how to sleep in it comfortably. ‘It will hurt at first,’ she whispered through Anne’s golden hair. ‘But the pain eases. Pretend it is pleasurable to you. After a while, it will become so.’ The cold shoulders stiffened beneath her arms. ‘You have come through smallpox; this is nothing.’
Anne nodded. Resolution set in her face. If anyone could skim the cream from this sour milk, it was her. She would find a way to live in a dull court, love a deformed husband. Caroline only wished she could be there to support her through it.
‘I am ready,’ Anne croaked. Her step was steady as they left the chamber; she looked every inch a happy bride. Only Caroline felt her fingers fidget on her arm, clammy to the touch.
By the carved state bed, Lady Suffolk pulled back the sheets to let the bride in. Planting one last kiss on Anne’s cheek, Caroline stepped away from the bed. George shoved the Prince of Orange into his side with a flash of stubby legs and curved shoulders.
Black spots danced before Caroline’s eyes. Pain throbbed inside and out. Through the rushing in her ears, she heard ladies murmur, shocked by their glimpse of deformity. It was all she could take. She had to leave.