Chapter Eight
The early days after Elizabeth’s parents died were filled with confusion for the young lady.
Intelligent and precocious for her age, she knew her life had materially changed, even if she did not entirely understand how.
With certainty, she knew her parents were gone, and that she would never feel the warmth of her mother’s embrace again.
The one constant in her life was Princess Caroline, with whom she was very familiar.
Her mother’s dearest friend welcomed Elizabeth to Blackheath, the house where she had been a frequent caller before her mother’s passing.
Elizabeth did not weep at first. Grief, when it arrived so suddenly, seemed to hollow her rather than overflow.
She moved through those first days in a daze, answering questions when required, submitting to the attentions of strangers with a composure that unsettled the adults around her.
They whispered that she was remarkably brave, that she did not cry as other children did.
Elizabeth did not know how to explain that crying required a certainty she did not yet possess.
She was still waiting for her mother to come back.
Elizabeth remembered the moment distinctly: standing in the wide entrance hall at Blackheath, her gloved hand clasped in Princess Caroline’s, the great house hushed as though it understood grief.
She had known this place before—had run laughing through its corridors, had taken tea in its smaller sitting rooms—but now it felt altered, quieter, heavier.
Now, she was not visiting. She was staying.
The doors closed behind them with a soft finality that made Elizabeth flinch.
“You are safe here,” Princess Caroline said gently, as though sensing the child’s unease. Her voice was steady, but Elizabeth could feel the tension in the hand that held hers. “No one will hurry you. No one will ask more of you than you are able to give.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she did not entirely understand. She looked up at the princess, searching her face for reassurance, for familiarity, for something that had not been taken away. Princess Caroline’s eyes were red-rimmed, her expression composed but strained.
They spent the first weeks at Blackheath in leisure—if such a word could be applied to days shaped by grief.
Yet compared to what would follow, those weeks were pleasant indeed.
Princess Caroline spent much of each day with her new ward, refusing to allow Elizabeth to be hurried into lessons or formality before she was ready.
Meals were taken, often together; mornings were given to reading or walking; afternoons to rest or small, purposeful occupations meant to steady rather than distract.
From the beginning, the princess insisted that Elizabeth call her Aunt.
It was not a title recognized by law or court, but it mattered all the same.
“You may call me Aunt in private,” the princess told her one afternoon, smoothing Elizabeth’s hair as they sat together by the window, the winter light pale upon the heath beyond. “But in company, you will call me Your Royal Highness.”
Elizabeth nodded solemnly, absorbing the distinction with the seriousness of a child accustomed to navigating adult expectations. “Because words mean different things to different people,” she said carefully.
Princess Caroline smiled—a little sadly, a little proudly. “Yes. Exactly so.”
Elizabeth’s new rooms at Blackheath were larger than the nursery where she had slept in her father’s house.
All her belongings were transported from Fielding House, and the place was let until Elizabeth found a use for it when she reached her majority.
Her father had inherited it from his maternal grandfather, along with an estate in Hertfordshire.
These, along with her mother’s dowry and her father’s fortune, were all now Elizabeth’s.
The rooms were bright and carefully prepared, with fresh hangings and a small fire laid ready, but Elizabeth scarcely noticed such details.
She stood while her trunks were unpacked, watching as dresses her mother had chosen were lifted out by hands she did not recognize.
Toys were placed upon shelves by servants who smiled too eagerly, as though kindness alone might mend what had been broken.
Elizabeth did not yet understand what it meant to own a house, an estate, a fortune. She understood only that trunks arrived, that familiar toys were unpacked by unfamiliar hands, and that nothing of her parents remained except what she carried inside herself.
Tears did not come until several nights later.
Elizabeth lay awake long past the hour she was meant to sleep, the unfamiliar bed too large, the silence too complete.
She had been good all day—very good, the governess had said—had eaten what was put before her, had answered politely when spoken to, had not cried even when her throat ached with unsaid words.
When the sob broke free, it startled her.
She buried her face in the pillow, clutching it tightly as though it might anchor her to something solid. The sound was small, muffled—but not small enough.
“Miss de Bourgh!” A sharp voice cut through the darkness. A maid stood by the bed, candle in hand, her expression irritated rather than concerned. “What is all this noise? You must learn to be grateful, Miss. Many children would give anything to be housed in such comfort.”
Elizabeth struggled to catch her breath. “I want my mama,” she whispered.
The maid sighed loudly. “Your mother is gone. Crying will not bring her back. You ought to think yourself fortunate, living here, when others—”
“Enough.”
The word fell like a command.
Princess Caroline stood in the doorway, her wrapper drawn close, her hair unbound, candlelight catching the hard line of her mouth. She had heard everything.
The maid paled. “Your Royal Highness, I was only—”
“You were chastising a grieving child,” Aunt Caroline said coldly. “That will not happen again.”
“I meant no harm—”
“You are dismissed.” The princess’s voice did not rise, but it allowed no argument. “Leave this room at once. You will not attend Miss de Bourgh again.”
The maid curtsied hastily and fled, the door closing with more force than propriety allowed.
Elizabeth lay frozen, her tears forgotten in shock.
Princess Caroline crossed the room in two strides and sat upon the bed, setting the candle aside. Without hesitation, she gathered Elizabeth into her arms.
“Oh, my poor love,” she murmured, pressing Elizabeth’s head against her shoulder. “Oh, my sweet, brave girl.”
Elizabeth clutched at her, the restraint of days dissolving at last. “I miss her,” she sobbed. “I try not to, but I do.”
“I know,” Aunt said softly, rocking her. “You do not need to be brave here. You never need to be brave with me.”
Elizabeth cried then, freely and without shame, her small body shaking as the princess held her fast. The princess did not hush her, did not urge calm. She simply stayed.
When the tears finally eased, Elizabeth drew back, her eyes swollen and red. “I was trying to be good.”
Aunt Caroline brushed a curl from her face. “Grief is not bad behavior,” she said firmly. “It is love with nowhere to go.”
Elizabeth considered this, then nodded slowly, as though committing the thought to memory.
“Will you stay?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yes,” the lady answered without pause. “I will always stay when you need me.”
Elizabeth leaned against her once more, her breathing finally steadying.
In that moment—small, private, and unseen—Elizabeth understood something she would carry with her for years to come: Blackheath was not merely a place of safety but a place where sorrow was permitted, where love was not conditional, and where she was not required to be grateful for surviving the unimaginable.
She was allowed to mourn. And she was not alone.
Elizabeth learned quickly when familiarity was permitted and when it must be set aside.
It was not difficult. Caroline herself lived by such divisions every day: a princess in name, a wife only in form, a mother without her child.
Elizabeth sensed, without fully understanding, that these boundaries were not chosen but endured.
Those first weeks were the gentlest Elizabeth would know for many years.
Aunt Caroline kept her close—closer than was customary for a royal household—reading aloud in the evenings, walking with her daily upon the heath when the weather allowed, her arm looped protectively around Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Caroline spoke little of the court and never of her husband, but she spoke freely of books, of languages, of the wider world beyond England.
Elizabeth slept better there than she had since her parents’ deaths, lulled by routine and the steady presence of someone who loved her without reservation and did not demand cheerfulness in return.
Yet Blackheath was not beyond the Prince of Wales’s reach.
Elizabeth learned this not through explanation but through atmosphere.
There were days when Aunt Caroline grew quieter, more watchful, when servants lowered their voices and letters were carried away with an urgency that unsettled the household.
On such days, Elizabeth would be told—always lightly, always without cause given—that she must prepare to go to Carlton House “for a little while.”
These removals were never named as punishment. No one spoke harshly. No reproach was offered. And yet Elizabeth understood.
When the prince is displeased, she thought, I am taken away.
Sometimes it was for a fortnight. Sometimes for months.