Caroline’s advisors backed out of the Council Chamber, heads inclined. As they filed through the heavy, wooden door she saw another figure standing outside with a hand theatrically pressed to his forehead. Frederick.
‘Do not tell me I am late!’ He withdrew his pocket watch and stared at it. ‘I thought the meeting was to start now.’ For all his love of the dramatic arts, he was a bad actor.
She sighed. ‘Come inside, Frederick. Close the door behind you.’
The ministers looked disappointed as he obeyed, leaving them shut out in the King’s Drawing Room.
Caroline limped to a chair. Jagged pain in her legs forced her to sit down. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of cut grass drifting in from the open window.
‘I do beg your pardon. So foolish of me, to mistake the hour. To think, if I had only left my rooms a little sooner – ’
‘Be quiet, Fred. You do not deceive me.’ She stared up into his eyes. They were hard as grey iron. ‘This is of a piece with the rest of your behaviour. You set out to humiliate me.’
His mouth curled at the corner. ‘I? Would I dare show disrespect to the Regent of England?’
This again. He could not forgive her for holding power or influence while George was away in Hanover. He was insulted to think a woman was made Regent over him.
Was nobody on her side? Henrietta left her, Emily vexed her with scandalous flirtations and George . . . Well, she could not bring herself to dwell on George now. She was in too much pain already.
‘Yes, you would. Although you are careful to seem full of duty in public, I know you are working against all that we do. My advisors tell me you plan to take the matter of your allowance to Parliament! Can you not give me an instant’s rest?’ She thought of her closet, where Mrs Clayton would be waiting with pails of ice water. She couldn’t wait to plunge her raw feet into them and feel a moment of relief.
‘The allowance is my birthright. The King is unjust to me. You know it.’ He brushed back the skirts of his jacket and put a fist upon his hip.
Why couldn’t he be reasonable? She was so tired. She needed a son to care for her, to lighten the load. Not this spiky, cuckoo of a young man transplanted into her family. William tried to help her, but he was only fourteen. He needed to be out riding with boys of his own age, not growing musty in a sick chamber.
‘It is your right. But why draw the public eye toward a family tiff? It is . . . vulgar.’
He snorted. Something flickered over his face. ‘Make them love you,’ he muttered
‘What?’
‘Make them love you, Fred. They were the last words you said to me before you left Hanover. I mean to do it. My subjects will not laugh at me as they do my father. And I will not offend them by complaining about every English fashion, dish and custom.’
His words took her breath. So he had thought of her, all those years apart. She had been dear to him – but why did he seem to hate her now? ‘I am pleased you attended to me. Do it again. You will never rule if you undermine the crown you are to inherit. You must support the King and his decisions.’
‘Your decisions,’ he corrected. ‘You rule the King. You will not rule me.’
It was as if he had punched her on a bruise. Yes, she had ruled George. But for how much longer? ‘I am trying for you, Fred!’ she cried, tears in her eyes. She reached into her pocket with difficulty and produced a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Look, here is the latest letter from your father. He has been to inspect a bride for you. Augusta of Saxe-Gotha.’ She smoothed out the passage. ‘Blonde, young, handsome . . .’
He bit his lip. ‘I wanted to marry my cousin Wilhelmina.’
‘Strange, then, that you tried to elope with Lady Diana Spencer.’
‘I was in debt! The King left me no choice,’ he flashed.
‘Well now you have one! Surely the King will raise your allowance when you marry and produce children. He might even give you a residence of your own, if you take care to show your support and prove that he can trust you.’
He considered, fiddling with his sword. ‘This princess is not the bride I wanted, but I have heard no harm of her. I suppose I must be content.’
‘That is all I ask. Settle down, have a family. Make it your chief object to care for them, not to disturb your father.’ She only meant it in part. The thought of Fred or his offspring succeeding George made her mouth taste sour. But this Augusta was a small, frail creature. With any luck, the pair of them would prove barren and the crown would be where it belonged: on William’s golden curls.
‘I will try.’ He did not meet her eyes. ‘What else does my father say from Hanover?’
Heat rushed to her face. She balled the paper into a fist. ‘Nothing. Nothing of importance.’ If only the force of her fingers could crush George’s words from existence and this new woman with it. Her dark hair, her twinkling eyes. The curves Caroline no longer possessed. I know you will love Amalie Wallmoden, because she loves me.
Sunlight glared through the window onto her back. Sweat trickled down her neck. It would start again: the jealousy, the fake smiles as she listened to George harp on another woman’s perfections. But this time it was not a powerless, pliable lady. Wallmoden was the thirty-one-year-old granddaughter of a practiced mistress. A rival over the sea, where Caroline could not even touch her.
How ardently she longed for Lady Suffolk.
Cranford
Church bells pealed through the summer air. Henrietta paused beneath the lychgate to kiss her new husband. Her heart soared. These joyful chimes were the death knell for the woman that was: Henrietta Howard, Lady Suffolk. Mistress to the King, Mistress of the Robes. Rising from the ashes was a new woman: Mrs Berkeley.
Children from the village cheered and waved ribbons on sticks as they made their way to the bridal carriage. The shimmering colours were more beautiful than any she had seen in the Queen’s wardrobe. She was done with the false glamour of court. Her dress was unpretentious; powder pink silk with rosebuds embroidered down the skirt to match the fresh ones in her hair. She had let it return to its natural chestnut colour. Her days of enduring the smell of horse urine to appease George’s penchant for blondes were at an end.
Lady Betty pressed a handkerchief to her eye. Berkeley put out a hand to help Henrietta up into the carriage, but Dorothy and Jack burst out of the crowd and wrapped their arms around her. ‘Aunty Hetty! When can we come to stay with you at Marble Hill?’
She laughed, stumbling under their embraces. ‘Very soon, I hope. Ask your father.’
‘Berkeley and I have already agreed – their main residence shall be with you.’ John grinned at the surprised look on Henrietta’s face. ‘Business shall keep me busy in town . . .’
The rooms she had designed with such care would ring with the laughter of children. It was more than she had ever dared to wish for. Ecstatic, she returned Dorothy’s embrace.
‘Come now,’ Berkeley smiled. ‘We will celebrate this later. For the moment, our wedding breakfast awaits!’
‘Oh, but can’t we ride with you in the carriage?’ Dorothy pleaded.
Henrietta shot a hopeful look at Berkeley.
He laughed and shrugged. ‘How can I deny my beautiful bride anything?’ He handed Henrietta and Dorothy up, then he and Jack scrambled in behind. A cheer arose from the villagers. Henrietta snuggled in close to Berkeley, her nostrils full of the scent of flowers. The coachman cracked the whip and the carriage whirred into motion. Lady Betty, Berkeley’s brothers and John hurled shoes after them for good luck. Henrietta laughed as one hit the back of their vehicle and then bounced off into a hedge.
It was a glorious day; the sun seemed to be bursting right out of the sky. She had never felt so content. The years of abuse, poverty, adultery and humiliation fell away. She could leave it all in the past – even Henry. She was where she should have been all along – after a long and arduous detour.
She may be deaf and Berkeley might be a gouty, middle-aged man but in their hearts they were a young couple; the chattering teenagers opposite their surging family. Life had been put on hold for Henrietta until the age of forty-six. Now it was time to begin.