Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Rebecca and Elizabeth stayed at Blackheath for eight weeks complete, a span of time that passed with surprising swiftness and left its mark upon Caroline as surely as the child she carried.
What had begun as a tentative arrangement—two women bound by circumstance and mutual goodwill—settled into something steadier and more profound.
Habits formed without conscious effort: shared breakfasts taken unhurriedly, afternoon walks when the weather allowed, evenings spent in companionable conversation while Elizabeth played at their feet or listened solemnly to a story read aloud.
Friendship, Caroline discovered, did not always announce itself with drama.
Sometimes it arrived stealthily and stayed.
It was during one such calm afternoon, when Elizabeth was occupied at a small table with paper and pencils, that Caroline chose to speak plainly.
“I should like you to be here when the child is born—if you are able.”
Rebecca did not answer immediately. She set her work aside with care and reached for Caroline’s hand. “I will do all I can,” she said simply. “You shall not face it alone.”
The relief Caroline felt was immediate and profound. From that moment, the future—though still uncertain—seemed less forbidding.
Arrangements soon occupied much of their attention.
The nursery at Blackheath, long unused and scarcely more than a forgotten suite of rooms, was ordered to be redecorated.
Caroline took an interest in every detail, poring over samples of fabric and paint, debating shades of pale green and soft cream, determined that the space should be welcoming rather than grand.
Rebecca offered practical counsel born of experience, reminding her gently that comfort mattered more than ornament, and that light and warmth were a child’s first luxuries.
At the same time, discreet inquiries were made for a suitable wet nurse—healthy, even-tempered, and accustomed to service that demanded both discretion and loyalty.
Mrs. Harding oversaw the search with quiet efficiency, presenting candidates only after careful consideration.
Caroline, though grateful, found the process sobering; even before the child’s arrival, her motherhood was being shared, portioned out among necessity and rank.
Yet the weeks were not all taken up with solemn preparation.
Rebecca and Caroline ventured into public together more than once, determined not to retreat entirely from society.
They attended the theatre on several occasions, always with Elizabeth in mind—leaving her safely behind under trusted care—and were seen in their box by more than a few observant eyes.
Caroline bore herself with calm dignity, Rebecca at her side lending a sense of normalcy that Caroline suspected she could not yet manage alone.
Their appearances did not go unnoticed. Before long, murmurs began to circulate in the tattle sheets: speculation about the Princess of Wales’s condition, conjecture regarding her chosen companions, and the occasional unkind remark about her husband’s conspicuous absence.
Caroline read none of it herself, but fragments reached her all the same.
She found, to her surprise, that she minded very little.
Rumor had long since ceased to wound her; it was companionship that healed.
Through it all, Rebecca heard very little from her husband.
A letter arrived now and then—brief, practical, concerned more with schedules and obligations than affection.
Caroline heard nothing from hers at all.
The silence might once have distressed her; now, it barely registered.
Whatever expectation she had once harbored had been replaced by something quieter and far more sustaining.
In truth, neither lady missed her spouse in the slightest.
Their days were full in other ways. Elizabeth flourished under the attention lavished upon her, growing bolder, more inquisitive, and deeply attached to Caroline.
She took to calling Blackheath “our house” without prompting and announced, with solemn certainty, that she would help teach the baby to read when the time came.
Caroline found herself loving the child with an ease that startled her—an affection uncomplicated by duty or disappointment.
In the evenings, when Elizabeth was abed, and the house settled into stillness, Caroline and Rebecca sat together and spoke freely.
They talked of motherhood and marriage, of disappointments borne patiently, and of the strange freedom that could be found in lowered expectations.
There was laughter, too—soft, unguarded, and all the more precious for having been absent so long.
If happiness had once seemed an impossibility to Caroline, she now understood that contentment could take many forms. It did not require passion or grand declarations, only understanding, shared purpose, and the steady presence of those who chose to remain.
At Blackheath, in the company of a friend and a child not her own, Caroline found herself—for the first time since her marriage—not merely enduring life, but living it.
Then, in an instant, Rebecca’s husband recalled her to their own home.
The summons arrived with the morning post, borne in by Mr. Ellis upon a small silver tray and placed beside Rebecca’s teacup as though it were of no greater consequence than the day’s accounts.
Caroline saw the change in her friend at once.
Rebecca’s hand stilled mid-movement, her eyes scanning the page too quickly, then too slowly, before the color drained from her face.
Rebecca folded the letter with care and set it aside. “I am afraid,” she said softly, “that our idyll has come to an end.”
Caroline’s heart sank, though she had known from the first that such a moment must come. “Is it Mr. de Bourgh?”
Rebecca nodded. “He writes that he has returned to Town—with the prince. We are required at Grosvenor Square this afternoon.” The word required was spoken with weary acceptance rather than resentment, as though resistance had long since proved useless.
Caroline attempted a smile. “I should not know where my husband was at all,” she said lightly, “were it not for the letters your husband sends to you.” The quip carried more truth than humor, and they both understood it.
Rebecca reached across the table and took Caroline’s hand. “I will write. Often. And I shall call whenever it is permitted—whenever I can contrive it.” Her voice firmed with resolve. “This separation will not undo what we have begun here.”
“I know,” Caroline said, though the certainty wavered.
Rebecca rose then, already composing herself for the practical demands ahead. “I must go and tell Elizabeth,” she said with a sigh. “And see to the packing.” There was no bitterness in her tone—only the resignation of a woman accustomed to yielding her own inclinations to another’s will.
When she had gone, the house seemed to fall abruptly quiet.
Caroline remained where she was, seated by the window that overlooked the heath, watching the slow movement of clouds across the pale sky.
The sense of loss surprised her in its immediacy.
She had grown used to the sound of Elizabeth’s laughter, to Rebecca’s presence in the rooms beside her own.
Their absence, even before it had fully occurred, pressed upon her with an ache she could not easily dismiss.
She was alone again.
Or so it seemed—until a sudden, unmistakable movement stirred within her.
A sharp little flutter, more insistent than before, as though the child sensed her melancholy and answered it.
Caroline gasped softly and placed a hand upon her stomach, the familiar curve beneath her palm offering comfort she had not known she sought.
“No,” she murmured. “I am not friendless.”
The child moved again, steady and sure, and Caroline smiled through the sudden sting of tears.
Whatever solitude awaited her, she would not face it as she once had.
She had known companionship, and she would know it again.
She had a friend who would write, a child who would return, and another who was already hers—present, alive, and undeniably real.
That knowledge sustained her as the sounds of packing began upstairs, and as Blackheath prepared, once more, to release those it had briefly sheltered.
With some months or so left until the birth of the royal heir, Caroline fully expected to be ignored by the prince. It was much to her surprise when she received a missive from her husband, demanding she prepare to give birth at Carlton House.
Carlton House
Madam,
I am directed by considerations of propriety and public necessity to require your immediate return to Carlton House, there to remain in residence in anticipation of your confinement.
It is judged proper that you be established here before the approaching Christmas, and that you continue at Carlton House until such time as the birth has safely occurred and all customary formalities have been observed.
The arrangements requisite to your condition shall be made upon your arrival, and you are expected to conduct yourself in a manner suitable to the dignity of your station and the importance of the occasion.
Attendance by the appropriate physicians and officers will be ensured, and every necessary provision for decorum and order will be observed.
You will understand that this requirement admits no delay. I trust that you will govern yourself accordingly and give instructions for your removal without further correspondence on the subject.
G., Prince of Wales