Chapter 4 #2
She had little more than six weeks until she would be required to return to her husband’s household.
The knowledge sat like a weight upon her chest, pressing harder each day as the calendar advanced.
It sickened her and she had no desire to be in his presence.
Their marriage could not be called happy, short as it had been, and she did not anticipate a change in that regard.
Hope, once extinguished, did not readily rekindle.
With a heavy sigh, she rang the bell for Mrs. Harding and proceeded to dispense instructions.
Mrs. Harding listened attentively as Caroline spoke—quiet directives concerning trunks, gowns to be altered, accounts to be settled, and the careful packing of personal items she wished to keep close.
The housekeeper offered no commentary, only nodding when required, though her expression betrayed a sympathy she did not voice.
Blackheath had become, in its way, a refuge; dismantling it felt like surrender.
Much to Caroline’s displeasure, Rebecca’s husband kept her occupied in the weeks preceding the removal to Carlton House.
Invitations were issued, expectations asserted, and Rebecca—dutiful as ever—found herself constrained by obligations that permitted little freedom.
They maintained a correspondence, but were not at liberty to call upon each other, and Caroline felt the loss keenly.
Rebecca included drawings from Elizabeth in her missives—crayon depictions of gardens, figures with crowns, and one unmistakable likeness of Caroline rendered with extravagant curls—which made Caroline smile even on her most trying days.
She looked on the child as one might a treasured, favorite niece, and looked forward to being in her presence again with an ache that surprised her in its intensity.
I have known her such a short time, Caroline reflected, and yet she has made herself indispensable.
The journey back to Carlton House was undertaken with grim efficiency.
The house loomed as it had before—grand, impersonal, and faintly hostile.
Upon her arrival, she was shown without ceremony into a withdrawing room to await her husband.
The familiar scent of polish and perfume did nothing to soften her dread.
Prince George entered at last, his expression registering annoyance before surprise, then settling into cool appraisal. His gaze dropped immediately to her figure, lingering with open dissatisfaction.
“So,” he said at length, “my mother was not mistaken.”
Caroline stiffened. “I trust you refer to my condition, sir.”
He gave a short laugh. “It is difficult to miss. You wear it…liberally.” His eyes flicked again to her waist. “You have altered considerably.”
Her cheeks burned, but her voice remained steady. “I carry your child.”
He shrugged. “And the kingdom’s heir, if we are fortunate.” Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “You will remain in your apartments until after the birth. I see no reason for you to be paraded about in this state.” He gestured vaguely. “Until you are returned to yourself.”
Caroline met his gaze, her own sharpening. “I am not an embarrassment to be hidden away.”
“You are an inconvenience,” he corrected coolly. “One that will be resolved in due course.”
Before she could reply, he turned. “See that she is settled,” he said to a servant.
She was shown to her chambers—spacious, well-appointed, and utterly isolating. The door closed behind her with a finality that echoed unpleasantly. Caroline sank into a chair, one hand resting instinctively upon her stomach as a familiar pressure stirred beneath her palm.
He has no intention of treating me as anything but a vessel, she thought. Very well. I shall endure.
She rang for paper and ink and immediately penned a note to Rebecca, her hand moving swiftly, urgently.
My dearest Rebecca,
I have returned to Carlton House as commanded and find myself already confined to my apartments. Your presence should be an infinite comfort, if your husband permit you to call. I am not permitted society, it seems, but I will gladly receive a friend.
Yours always,
Caroline
The reply came two days later, and Caroline clutched it with relief.
My dear Caroline,
I am heartsick to hear how you are received. Nathan is not inclined to indulge visits at present, but I shall prevail if I can, and I promise to try. Elizabeth speaks of you daily, and insists she will come to you the moment she is allowed. Hold fast. You are not forgotten.
Ever your friend,
Rebecca
Caroline folded the letter carefully and pressed it to her chest.
I am uncomfortable, she admitted to herself. Physically, emotionally—every way a woman may be. Her back ached, her feet swelled, and sleep came fitfully. Worse still was the uncertainty. Christmas approached, and with it the specter of obligation.
Will he force me into public rooms? Into display? she wondered. Or shall I be hidden like something shameful until the moment of my usefulness?
She rested back against the cushions, breathing slowly until the child shifted once more, insistent and alive.
“No,” she whispered. “Whatever else he may command, he cannot command my spirit.” And in that thought—delicate but resolute—Caroline found the strength to endure what lay ahead.
The summons to Windsor arrived in due course, borne on thick cream paper edged in black and sealed with unmistakable authority.
Caroline read it slowly, her expression unreadable, though something within her lifted at the thought of company—even company undertaken out of obligation.
Christmas at Windsor would be splendid, certainly, and loud, and full of ceremony; yet it would also mean voices, movement, and the presence of others who might look upon her as more than a problem to be managed.
There was, however, a second letter.
This one was addressed to her alone, the tone markedly different—measured, considerate, and unmistakably maternal.
Queen Charlotte wrote that Caroline’s attendance was desired, but not required beyond what her strength permitted; that her condition must govern her engagements; that she was to appear only when able and withdraw without apology when fatigued.
It was, Caroline thought, the kindest communication she had received since her arrival in England.
She read it twice before folding it carefully and setting it aside.
George, however, snatched it up, read it once, and required no second perusal.
“You will inform my mother,” he said curtly, “that you are entering your confinement and will not attend.” He stood near the fire, hands clasped behind his back, speaking as though the matter were already settled.
“I will not have any risk taken—real or imagined. The heir is all that concerns anyone at present.” What remained unsaid was his desire to be away from his wife.
Caroline looked at him, searching his face for some sign—anything—that might suggest this concern extended to her. It did not.
“I am not yet confined,” she said firmly. “I am merely advanced.”
“You are advanced enough,” he replied, with an impatient flick of his hand. “And you are weary. It is evident.” His gaze drifted briefly—dismissively—to her waist. “There is no need for you to be displayed.”
Displayed. The word stung, though she had long grown accustomed to such language.
“She has said I may attend as I am able,” Caroline ventured, more tired than defiant. “It would please her.”
“It will please her more to have a living grandchild,” George said flatly. “You will write and say precisely what is proper—that you are withdrawing from public appearance in obedience to medical prudence.”
Caroline hesitated only a moment longer. She was weary—bone-weary—and not inclined to fight battles that would cost her more than they gained.
“Very well,” she said at last. “I shall inform Her Majesty that I am entering my confinement and will not risk the child.”
George nodded, satisfied. “See that you do.”
When he had gone, Caroline remained where she was, the second letter still lying upon the table like a quiet reproach. She pressed her fingers to it, then to her stomach, where the child shifted faintly beneath her touch.
I should have liked to go, she admitted to herself. Not for the splendor—but for the noise, the warmth, the sense of belonging to something larger than this silence.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Brunswick at Christmas—to candlelit rooms heavy with evergreen, to music and laughter, to her brothers and sisters gathered close, to simple foods prepared with ceremony rather than extravagance.
There would have been singing, she thought.
Hymns, certainly. Perhaps games played long into the evening, and children permitted to stay up past their usual hour, drowsy with excitement.
Here, Christmas would pass with quiet efficiency. Observed, perhaps—but not shared.
She took up her pen at last and composed the necessary reply to the queen, her language careful, dutiful, and restrained. When it was finished, she sealed it and rang for a servant.
As the door closed again, Caroline leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes.
I long for company, she thought, without shame. Not crowds—just kindness.
The child moved, slow and deliberate, and Caroline smiled faintly.
“Soon,” she whispered, unsure whether she meant the birth—or something else entirely.