Henrietta and Berkeley sat together in the breakfast parlour. They were oddly shy. Her black skirts filled the space between them, a vivid reminder of the man who had once stood in their way and was no more. Everything had changed.
Light fell through the window, dappling plates of untouched meat upon the table. The sun was low in a pale blue sky; summer was dying fast.
‘Please reconsider. Bath would do you the world of good. My sister and I could take you in our carriage.’
Something fluttered in her chest, like a bird trying to break free. She picked up the key to the tea chest and turned it over in her hands. ‘I cannot. The King has forbidden me from seeing either of you.’
‘Then why do you let me sit here now?’
She had no answer for him. Perhaps it was just her own foolish weakness, longing for someone kind to rely upon. Since Gay had passed away, she had felt strangely alone. Only Berkeley’s presence brought any comfort.
‘Perhaps I will go with you and Lady Betty next year. Since Princess Anne’s wedding, the Queen has been so distressed . . . ’
‘I do not understand, Henrietta.’ He reached across the table and picked at a bread roll. ‘You no longer need the King’s money. Do you wish to stay in royal favour or not?’
How could she explain the complex tangle of emotions that bound her to the royal couple? ‘It is hard to abandon the Queen, Berkeley. Especially in her illness. Besides, she is kinder to me now . . .’
‘Until the next thing happens to annoy her.’
She grimaced. He was right, of course. Caroline had saved her from Charles, and she would always be in Henrietta’s prayers for that. But whatever there was of friendship and loyalty had melted away in the heat of George’s bed.
He watched her hand, turning the key over and over. ‘I thought you disliked the Queen.’
‘I dislike what the Queen has become.’ Images of Caroline flashed before her; the blonde beauty laughing in the gardens of Herrenhausen, the grieving mother, drenched in blood. She was so close, so entwined with her memories, that she could be a physical part of her. ‘She was not always so. At one time, she was all that stood between me and ruin.’
‘Then she has purchased your gratitude. Not your life. Use Bath as a trial. See how she copes without you for a few months.’
Henrietta gazed past him to her display of willow pattern china. She had lived her life like one of the Oriental figures; forever trapped in one blue scene, eternally seeing the same trees, the same bridge, the one pagoda. She would have to smash the plate to break free. ‘Next year. Next year I will go with you to Bath.’
He sighed. ‘There comes a time in life when one must stop living for others and start living for themselves. But while you are in the mood to serve your fellow man, can I ask when you are planning to pour me some tea?’
She stopped, suddenly aware of the key in her hand. She laughed. ‘I am a terrible hostess.’ She unlocked the tea chest and busied herself with preparing the drink. ‘I am sorry, Mr Berkeley. I don’t mean to be obtuse. But the Queen is determined to keep me. To leave, I must anger the King beyond hope of forgiveness. I must leave her with no choice. Yet no matter what I do, she takes my part.’
‘Come to Bath,’ he urged again. ‘When you are away, the Queen will hear gossip. And gossip can be controlled. Think of the rumours we could send back to court. The Opposition mass in Bath! We could say you are conspiring against the King, flirting with Prince Frederick.’
She swallowed. The tea leaves leached their sepia colour into the hot water. What Berkeley suggested would work, but it was a huge, daunting step. If she could only settle her emotions and summon her courage . . .
Henrietta looked up into Berkeley’s face. While he held her gaze, she thought she could do anything. Taking a breath, she stepped over the precipice. ‘Very well. Let us do as you say.’
She was rewarded with one of his boyish grins. ‘And what then?’
She had no idea. Freedom was a foreign country. She poured a little milk into the empty cups. ‘I expect I will live quietly. Have my nephew and niece down to stay with me. I have had many titles, but I cherish that of aunt the most.’
He moved in close, filling her nostrils with his sweet musk. ‘What about Mrs Berkeley? Is that a title you might stoop to?’
Her heart turned over. She gripped a cup as milk sloshed onto the table. ‘Anything is possible, Mr Berkeley.’
St James’s Palace
Sweat poured down Caroline’s neck as she struggled to keep up with George’s brisk pace. The park was a mosaic of bronze, copper and bright red leaves but she could not pause to enjoy its autumnal beauty. Everything depended on her steering the conversation between father and daughter.
Emily galloped at George’s side, hopelessly unladylike. She did not moderate her voice. ‘I saw her, I tell you. She gadded around Bath, courting every wretch who voted against the Excise Bill.’
‘That scoundrel Chesterfield?’ George pounded his cane against the path as he walked.
‘Yes! And Bolingbroke. I think my Lady Suffolk is becoming a Jacobite.’
‘Oh, fie!’ Caroline gasped. She jogged a few steps before pain seized her legs. ‘Lady Suffolk has always kept company with Chesterfield; that is nothing new. They are friends. And I am sure she met Bolingbroke only by accident.’
Emily threw back her head and laughed. ‘Well if she did, it was a repeated accident.’
‘How could she do this to me?’ George cried. ‘After the kindness I have shown her? Ungrateful bitch! I thought she was my friend, but she conspires with my enemies.’ He shook his head. ‘She was using me. Playing me for a fool all along, just to pay off her husband. Now that he is dead, see how she changes!’
Birds flocked in the sky, headed for warmer climes. In a great black column they flooded over the park gates out into London.
‘George, please consider. Lady Suffolk has been our servant for twenty years. I am sure this is all a terrible misunderstanding.’
Emily snorted. Caroline threw her an icy glare.
‘You are a silly old girl,’ George growled. ‘What do you mean by defending her? Why, it was you who warned me about her and Chesterfield conspiring together in the first place. You saw him sneaking to her apartments by the secret passage.’
Caroline fought for breath. He spoke the truth. Prodded by jealousy and spite, she had tried her best to bring Henrietta down. She regretted it now. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken. After all, a pretty lady would hardly pick Chesterfield as a lover.’
‘Oh, but she has found herself another now!’ Emily trilled. ‘Not much better, but less ugly.’
Caroline stumbled on an uneven paving stone. If she was not in crippling pain, she would seize Emily and box her about the ears.
It was hopeless. She would never save Henrietta now. But every racking breath of cold air she took, every step of agony pointed out how much she needed her. George would not want this broken, bloated body. And if he took a young, lithe mistress, how would Caroline compete? Would she have any strength left to control her?
George stopped dead, leaning on his cane. A breeze lifted the curls of his wig from his neck. ‘Who? Who does she favour now?’
Emily’s eyes danced. ‘Mr Berkeley. I saw them dancing together. Talking in whispers. All of Bath was in uproar.’
‘All of Bath?’ He spun to face her. ‘The whole town saw her betray me?’
‘Oh yes, Papa. They were quite scandalised.’
Bellowing, George launched his cane down the path. Several pigeons took alarm and flew away.
‘Come now, George . . .’ Before Caroline could lay a hand on his shoulder he stalked off, turning right down another trail. Emily skipped after him, relaying the places she had seen Henrietta and Berkeley together.
Caroline could go on no longer. Exhausted, she fell against a box hedge. It was scratchy and full of insects, but she could not move. At least it was cool and shady there.
George’s voice drifted over the gardens. ‘I will have the minx horse-whipped!’
What would she do now?
The drawing room was bursting with courtiers for the King’s birthday. People could barely move. One man in a silver jacket bowed to an acquaintance and hit someone with his dress sword. A lady fainted from the heat and had to be carried, over the top of the crowd, out of the room. Yet somehow, as Henrietta walked, the company fell away from her path. She had no trouble moving the panniers of her elaborate purple gown forward. From the corner of her eye, she saw ladies tittering behind their fans. She swallowed. She had wanted this: to be the subject of gossip, to push George over the edge. So why did she feel so sick?
Hot wax dripped from the chandelier onto her arm. She flinched, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out. She would not leave in tears, no matter what happened. But it was difficult not to shake from emotion; even harder not to gag at the mixture of overpowering fragrances: orange-blossom, civet, frankincense.
Caroline stood with the princesses and Mrs Clayton beside the throne. She made a great show of listening to something Carrie was saying, but it was clear from the way her eyes flicked that she marked Henrietta’s progress toward George. He was speaking to Lord Hervey, gesturing with his hands. Judging by his enthusiasm, Henrietta guessed the topic was another obscure branch of his family tree. He always looked handsome when animated. That boyish gleam of the eye made her remember why she had cared for him. If only it could have been different; if only they could part as friends.
Lord Hervey turned as she arrived beside him in a rustle of taffeta. George did not pause in his sentence, did not even glance at her. She was left waiting, on the side, looking thoroughly foolish while he finished his story.
Prince Frederick passed close by her. He leant in so near she could smell the powder on his wig. ‘It is hurtful, is it not? He does the exact same thing to me. One might as well be a spirit!’
It was good-natured of him to try and cheer her, but she wished he would not. Kindness only made her feel worse. She forced a smile and squeezed out a false laugh.
For an instant, George glanced in their direction. Henrietta fell into a profound curtsey. She held her legs bent, braced for a scold. It did not come. Still he ignored her.
Lord Hervey took pity. ‘Ah, Lady Suffolk. Molly is somewhere hereabouts. She will be glad to see you.’
‘Perhaps you would go and fetch her for me, my lord?’
He blushed red beneath his porcelain paint. ‘I . . . the King was just telling me – ’
George cut across him. ‘What do you want, Lady Suffolk?’
‘Merely to wish Your Majesty felicitations on your birthday. And many happy returns of the occasion.’
His crack of laughter was so loud that a lady behind him jumped. ‘Indeed? I thought you and your friends wished to put an end to my birthdays. Was that not your plan?’
She stood, drawing back her shoulders. ‘I do not understand . . .’
‘Tell me, Lady Suffolk,’ he went on, projecting his voice so all around could hear. ‘When you drink my health, do you pass the wine over a bottle of water?’
Her throat closed. That was what the Jacobites did; they drank to the exiled James Stuart, the king over the water. She could only shake her head.
‘Pah!’ he snarled. ‘I have no time for your games. Get away with you!’
Sweat dribbled down her neck. She closed her eyes and tried to recall the speech she had rehearsed, but she couldn’t hear her thoughts over the pulse drumming in her head. ‘As Your Majesty has not called on me since my return from Bath, I must ask if –’
‘Why do you still stand there? I told you to leave. I will not be calling on you again, rest assured.’
The courtiers around them fell silent. Oh, George. Now he was finally looking at her, she wished he would not. His eyes were icy, his lip curled in contempt. Of all the expressions to see on a once beloved face, hatred was the worst. ‘Then I wonder if Your Majesty would be so kind as to let me know when it is convenient for me to leave your family. Since . . . since you no longer have need of my services.’
‘Services! Hah! No, I do not require your services,’ he leered, looking her up and down. ‘I could get better from a two-penny whore.’
Somebody gasped. Henrietta’s vision clouded. She put her hand to the string of pearls at her neck – they had been a gift from him. She ran her finger over the dip between her collarbones, remembered him kissing her there. She bobbed a hasty curtsey and walked backwards, away from the King. She had no difficulty reaching the door; people drew back as if she had the plague.
Just before she turned to hurry away, a hand caught her shoulder. She recognised the waxy, honeyed perfume of rose otto. It was Caroline. ‘Lady Suffolk? Are you unwell, child?’
‘I am exceedingly ill, Your Majesty.’ Her voice bubbled. ‘Once again, I must beg your permission to retire.’
‘For the night?’
‘Forever.’
Caroline’s face fell slack. ‘You are doing exactly what your enemies want. They have told the King lies about your behaviour in Bath, and by leaving you confirm them! And what will you gain? Your friends will drop you the instant you quit court.’
‘Perhaps I am better off without such people.’
‘You will repent of it. I cannot give you leave to go. Pray consider, be calm.’ But Henrietta was calm. It was Caroline who sweated.
‘Madam, I beg you. Let me retire. I must leave with or without your consent. I would rather have it.’
Caroline twitched. Strain pulled at the corners of her wrinkled eyes. ‘Well . . . stay a week longer, won’t you? Stay a week at my request. You will not refuse me this?’
Unexpectedly, tears started to Henrietta’s eyes. How pathetic Caroline had become. ‘No, Your Majesty. I will obey you, as always. But I shall not change my mind. After a week I shall leave.’ Henrietta picked up her skirts and moved toward the door. She was heavy with the need to weep.
As she placed her fingers on the handle, Caroline’s hand stopped her again. ‘I am dying, Lady Suffolk,’ she whispered. ‘I do not have long. I cannot manage the King alone. What will I do if he takes another mistress, one I cannot trust?’
Henrietta froze. It all made sense now; the sudden swing to her side, the protests in her defence. She could feel Caroline’s desperation leeching through her fingers, onto her skin.
‘Think!’ Caroline went on. ‘You would nurse me in my last days and then . . . The King would turn to you for comfort. You would be the first lady at court.’
Henrietta wavered. She had never heard a plea for help and ignored it. But she had given and given of herself until she was nothing but a limp rag rung through a mangle. And neither Caroline nor George appreciated it. ‘I will pray for you, Your Majesty. But I do not want your court, or your husband. I only ever asked for your protection. And you made me whore myself to get it.’ Yanking the door open, she ran down the steps into Whalebone Court.