Chapter 12 The Princess and the Physician #3
I force the next words past the tightness in my throat. “But it is also not the same as saying you must die.”
“Everyone speaks of the child,” she says. “The nation. The succession. Duty. Hope.” Her other hand rests on the swell of her belly. “I love this child already. I do. But sometimes I think they see me only as a door through which the future must pass.”
Something in me breaks cleanly and quietly. I think of Victoria, Kitty, Lady Weston—all these women, all these bodies turned into property, duty, evidence, shame.
“You are not a door,” I say.
“You are the patient,” I continue. “So is the child. Not one instead of the other. Both.”
She nods once, as if she is making herself believe it.
“Then you will come when I send?”
“Yes.”
“Even if they object?”
“Especially then.”
Charlotte smiles, small but real. “Good.”
When we are finally dismissed, my legs feel hollow. Beatrice catches my arm in the corridor.
“The Princess Charlotte asked you to attend her confinement,” she whispers.
“Yes. That was also on my list.”
“This will change everything.”
That is what I am afraid of.
We are led back through the glittering intestine of Carlton House. Servants bow. Courtiers glance. A lady in violet silk whispers behind her fan, and this time I know my name is in her mouth.
Miss Hartford.
Charlatan.
Royal favorite.
Target.
The words change depending on who says them. The danger does not.
At the outer hall, confusion blooms. Our carriage has been delayed in the press of vehicles. Beatrice is intercepted by an older woman of rank who descends upon her with the terrifying precision of a hawk spotting a decorative mouse.
“Lady Beatrice, your aunt has been searching everywhere for news of your brother—”
Beatrice’s fingers tighten on mine, but etiquette is a net, and she is caught in it.
“I shall be only a moment,” she whispers.
“I’ll wait by the entrance.”
“Do not go outside.”
“I am not completely without survival instincts.”
This is a lie, but a comforting one.
A footman directs me toward a side vestibule where the air is cooler and less perfumed. The main entrance is clogged with departing visitors, so a servant gestures toward a smaller door opening onto the carriage court.
“The Ashbourne carriage will be brought round there, miss.”
I hesitate.
Something about the passage feels wrong. Just a thread pulling tight beneath my skin.
“Lady Beatrice is waiting inside,” I say.
“As you wish, miss.” The servant bows and steps away, already called by someone more important.
I stand alone in the vestibule, listening to the muffled thunder of wheels beyond the walls.
Then I see Thornbury at the far end of the corridor.
He is speaking to a man in plain dark clothes, the sort of man whose face one forgets because forgetting him feels safer. Thornbury presses something into his hand.
The man’s gaze flicks to me.
Thornbury sees that I have seen.
For one suspended second, neither of us moves. Then he smiles. Not a court smile. A promise.
I turn back toward the main hall.
Too late.
The plain man has vanished, and another shoulder clips mine hard from behind. I stumble through the side door, catching myself against damp stone. The air outside bites colder than expected.
“Excuse me,” I snap, twisting around.
There are three of them.
Not courtiers. Not servants. Men in rough coats, hats pulled low, boots muddy from real streets. The door behind me swings shut with a soft, terrible click.
Every muscle in my body locks.
“Gentlemen,” I say, because terror and manners have formed an unhealthy alliance.
The largest one grins. He is missing a tooth. “This her?”
The man from the corridor steps from the shadow near the wall.
“That’s her.”
My heart hammers. I back up, one gloved hand searching for the door latch behind me.
“If this is about money,” I say, “I have very little and terrible judgment.”
No one laughs.
The missing-tooth man catches my wrist.
Pain flashes white.
“Not money,” he says. “Lesson.”
I twist the way Kitty once showed me, dropping my weight, trying to wrench free. For one beautiful second, it works.
Then another man grabs my arm.
I inhale to scream.
A hand clamps over my mouth.
The smell of leather, sweat, gin.
Panic detonates.
I bite down.
The man curses and jerks back. I ram my elbow into something soft and hear an oof that would be satisfying if I were not being dragged into a service passage beside a palace.
“Help!” I shout.
The word cracks against stone and vanishes beneath the rattle of wheels.
A fist drives into my ribs.
Air disappears.
The world folds.
I hit the wall hard enough to see sparks. My bonnet slips. Pins tear at my hair. Someone grabs my reticule. Another hand fists in my sleeve.
“Should’ve stayed quiet,” the largest man growls.
I taste blood.
For one absurd second, my brain supplies: This is why healthcare workers need better institutional support.
Then the second blow comes, and there is no room for jokes.
Only stone under my palm.
Boots scraping.
My own breath, broken.
And the terrible understanding that royal favor does not make me safe.
It makes me worth silencing.