Chapter 2 #2
Caroline learned that Rebecca’s marriage came about much like her own: both were arranged to satisfy higher powers rather than personal inclination.
Rebecca had first met Nathan de Bourgh at a London ball when she first came out, a night filled with music, expectation, and the careful weighing of prospects.
The only daughter of a minor country squire, her parents had high hopes for her marriage, seeing in her not merely a beloved child but a means of securing their family’s future.
Her handsome features and general good sense drew the attention of many men, but Nathan de Bourgh offered the most in regard to fortune and connection.
What was more, he had inherited an estate adjacent to Rebecca’s childhood home in Hertfordshire—a convenience that appealed greatly to her parents, if not entirely to Rebecca herself.
Rebecca confided in Caroline, telling how her dear older brother had protested on her behalf, unwilling to see his sister bartered without consideration for her happiness.
Only to be threatened with disinheritance if he did not leave off.
“Dear Thomas would not give up. In consequence, my brother was sent abroad for a time. I was married while he was away.” Rebecca’s voice did not waver as she spoke, but there was a tightness about her mouth that betrayed long-held resentment.
“Have you returned to your home since your marriage?” It sounded like a dream to Caroline—to live so near one’s family, to walk familiar paths and hear beloved voices.
“No, and I have no intention of doing so while my father lives.” Rebecca folded her arms, a gesture both defensive and resolute. “He sold me, and I cannot forgive him.” Suddenly she looked stricken, as though recalling herself to propriety. “I am sorry, Your Highness, I meant no disrespect.”
Caroline smiled wryly. “It is no great secret that my marriage was purely for political and financial reasons,” she reassured her new friend.
“I was raised to expect such a match. You, however, should have had greater freedom.” The injustice of it struck her anew—that Rebecca, with fewer constraints of rank, had been granted no more liberty than herself.
“My brother had his revenge,” Rebecca confided, a glimmer of satisfaction softening her expression.
“He married the daughter of the local solicitor. Fanny is a kind enough sort, but not at all the daughter of a gentleman.” Rebecca’s lips curved faintly.
“My father cannot disinherit my brother—the estate is entailed.”
Caroline laughed, the sound brief but genuine. “What a sorry state of affairs we both suffer!” It felt good to laugh at it, even briefly—to name the injustice and rob it of some of its power.
Caroline learned that Rebecca had a child, a five-year-old girl named Elizabeth.
“She is the very picture of me when I was her age, though she has her father’s eyes.
Whatever faults my husband has, his eyes are very fine.
” Nathan de Bourgh’s eyes were rather peculiar.
They were sometimes green and sometimes more hazel.
They sparkled merrily when he laughed and glittered dangerously when he was angry.
Caroline had witnessed the change once during the house party, and the memory lingered with her, unsettling despite Rebecca’s affection.
“Does your husband wish for a son?” she asked quietly, already knowing what the answer must be.
“Naturally, though his estate is not entailed as Longbourn is. I imagine we shall have another child someday.” Rebecca did not seem terribly enthused about the idea, her tone thoughtful rather than hopeful.
Caroline could commiserate well; the expectation of children pressed upon them both, though neither spoke of it with joy.
“I should like to meet your daughter.” Her words were impulsive, born of a sudden longing—for innocence, for unguarded affection, for something untainted by ambition or duty.
“It would be my pleasure.” Rebecca smiled broadly then, the expression unguarded and warm, and for the first time since arriving at Carlton House, Caroline felt something dangerously close to contentment.
Caroline confided her suspicions to Rebecca before anyone else.
Drew, her lady’s maid, had been sworn to silence on pain of dismissal without reference.
The oath had been given solemnly, the gravity of it understood by them both; in a household such as Carlton House, news traveled faster than sympathy, and Caroline would not risk the prince learning of her condition from anyone but herself—or worse, from his mother.
“I felt the quickening this morning,” she whispered during tea that afternoon.
The china cups clinked softly throughout the sitting room, and the low hum of conversation provided a convenient cover.
The other ladies were sprinkled around the room, all engaged in conversation that excluded the two ladies on the settee, their exclusion now serving as a blessing rather than an insult.
“Really?” Rebecca grinned, her delight immediate and unguarded. “I had no notion you even suspected!”
“In truth, I suspect I fell with child soon after our marriage.” Caroline’s cheeks grew warm, the admission both intimate and humiliating.
She lowered her voice further, leaning closer.
“Once I tell the prince, I suspect I shall be sent back to Blackheath. I am here only because the queen has commanded it. She wants to see her line secured.” The words were spoken without bitterness, but there was resignation in them—an understanding she long since made peace with.
Rebecca’s smile softened, tempered now with sympathy.
“As all parents do, I suppose. My brother has three girls now, and his wife is pregnant again. I know from Fanny’s letters that she hopes for a son to break the entail but does not want to hope.
” She shook her head faintly. “It is a cruel thing to measure one’s happiness against a future child who does not yet exist.”
“Will you call upon me at Blackheath?” Caroline’s words poured forth, sounding both desperate and eager, as though once spoken they could not be retrieved.
“I shall be so lonely and our friendship is very dear.” She did not often allow herself such honesty, but the thought of returning to isolation—now with a child quickening beneath her heart—was more than she could bear.
“My husband means to depart with the prince when the house party has ended. I shall convince him to let me stay.” Rebecca placed a hand on Caroline’s, the pressure warm and reassuring. “I have greatly enjoyed coming to know you, dear friend.”
Caroline beamed, her relief unmistakable. “You must bring Elizabeth—you must both stay as my guests.”
Rebecca laughed softly. “Elizabeth would be enchanted. She adores London, though she pretends otherwise. And I think,” she added more quietly, “it would do her good to be near you. She has never known a princess, after all—certainly not one so kind.”
Caroline’s gaze drifted, momentarily unfocused, her hand instinctively resting against her abdomen. “I do not know what sort of mother I shall be,” she admitted. “Everything about my life has been decided by others. Even this child—beloved already—belongs more to England than to me.”
Rebecca did not contradict her. Instead, she said gently, “That may be so. But there will be moments—small ones—that belong to you alone. The first movement. The sound of your child’s breath when no one else is in the room. No crown can claim those.”
The thought brought a sudden sting to Caroline’s eyes. She blinked rapidly, unwilling to cry—not here, not now. “I felt it so distinctly,” she murmured. “Not pain. Just…certainty. As though something within me had knocked and said, I am here.”
Rebecca squeezed her hand. “Then you are already a mother.”
Caroline drew a slow breath, steadying herself.
Around them, laughter rose from another corner of the room, trivial and careless, utterly removed from the quiet gravity of the moment unfolding on the settee.
She glanced toward the door, half-expecting Prince George to enter, to intrude upon this fragile pocket of safety—but he did not.
“The prince must be told as soon as may be,” Caroline said at last. “He will wish it. And the Queen.” Her mouth curved faintly. “Though I suspect his enthusiasm will be measured.”
Rebecca’s lips pressed together. “Whatever his response, you will not be alone. I give you my word.”
Caroline held fast to that promise as the afternoon wore on, cherishing it like a talisman. For the first time since her marriage, she allowed herself to imagine a future not entirely barren of companionship—one in which friendship, at least, might flourish where love had failed.
And beneath it all, steady and undeniable, her child moved again—silent, insistent, alive.
Caroline went to Prince George’s chambers that night with a resolve she did not entirely feel.
The corridor was dim, lit only by a pair of sconces whose flames flickered with every passing draft, and each step seemed louder than the last upon the carpet.
She paused before his door, her hand hovering for a moment, pressed lightly against her abdomen as if to steady both herself and the life she carried. Then she knocked.
The door was opened sharply, as though he had been waiting only to be interrupted. Prince George stood there in a state of obvious irritation, his coat discarded, his waistcoat loosened, the smell of wine lingering unmistakably about him.
“What is it now?” he demanded. “It is late, and I did not summon you.”
“I beg your pardon,” Caroline said softly, refusing to retreat. “I wished to speak with you. It is…important.”
He scowled, then stepped aside with ill grace. “Very well. Say what you must.”
She entered his sitting room, the familiar opulence doing nothing to soften the moment.
He did not invite her to sit, and she did not ask.
For a brief, humiliating instant, she wondered if her courage would fail her now—but the memory of the morning’s certainty, of that unmistakable movement beneath her heart, carried her through.
“I am with child,” she said.
The words hung in the air, unadorned, irrevocable.
George stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he exhaled, long and slow, as though she had merely confirmed a suspicion rather than delivered news of consequence. “Yes,” he said at last. “I had supposed as much.”
She blinked. “That is all you have to say?”
“What would you have me say?” he replied irritably. “The object of this arrangement has been achieved. My mother will be satisfied. Parliament will be appeased. The task is complete.”
The bluntness of it struck her harder than she had anticipated, though she had braced herself for indifference. Still, the ease with which he dismissed both her and the child they had created together felt like a fresh wound laid bare.
“I thought it proper that you should know,” Caroline said, her voice steady despite the ache spreading through her chest.
“Indeed. And now that I do,” George said, turning away to pour himself another drink, “there is no further necessity for you to remain here. You will remove to Blackheath tomorrow. It will be quieter there, and you will be spared the attentions of my household. I trust you will find that agreeable.”
Agreeable. The word echoed painfully.
She said nothing for a moment, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of witnessing her hurt. This, she realized, was precisely what she had expected—what she had always known would come once her usefulness was assured. Still, knowing did not dull the sting.
“Very well,” she said at last. “If that is your wish.”
He waved a hand dismissively, already finished with the conversation. “My housekeeper will see that arrangements are made.”
Caroline inclined her head, turned, and left without another word. The door closed behind her with a quiet finality that felt far more decisive than any raised voice might have been.
As she made her way back to her own rooms, the tears she had so carefully restrained finally gathered, though she did not allow them to fall until she was alone.
Even then, they were few. She pressed her hand once more to her abdomen, drawing comfort from the gentle, undeniable presence there—a presence that belonged to her, if nothing else did.
She thought of Rebecca. Of her promise to stay. Of shared walks, quiet conversations, a child’s laughter in otherwise lonely rooms. It was a small consolation, perhaps, but it was real.
And for the first time that night, Caroline allowed herself to believe that even at Blackheath—cast aside and inconvenient though she might be—she would not be entirely alone.