Chapter 2
I cannot express to you the change that George and I have felt since the birth of our Amelia.
As you know, I had hoped to have had no more children after Alfred, and I had despaired greatly to have then found myself carrying Amelia, and who can blame me?
To have a daughter one-and-twenty years after her oldest sibling .
. . One might speak of moderation and measures, but I digress.
Still, the war with the American colonies occupied my husband for so long, made him so miserable, and to then lose Octavius and Alfred .
. . Amelia brightens him in a way nothing else can.
We are more social, we are more open, we are inclined to encourage rather than despair.
The only truly tiresome affair in our lives, politics aside, happens to be our oldest child.
Our heir. When might a parent begin to believe they have gone awry in the upbringing of certain children?
I cannot say all of them, for some of my children are delightful.
I firmly believe that I am a better mother now than I was at the beginning, and the Prince of Wales is the proof of my abysmal beginning in the position.
Charlotte
“Your Majesty, the king would speak with you.”
Charlotte, Queen of Great Britain, looked up at the footman with a questioning brow. “Would he, indeed? At this moment or perhaps at some point in the future?”
To his credit, the footman did not appear remotely ruffled by her frankness.
“Presently, Your Majesty.” He bowed with proper deference, waiting for her word or direction.
As though there was a choice.
Not even for a queen.
She clipped a nod and rose from her writing desk. “Then I shall attend him presently. Lead on.”
With the usual perfunctory precision, the Kew Palace footman turned on his heel and started the walk toward the king’s present position. Had Charlotte known that location, the footman could have left off entirely, and she would have simply gone to her husband like the wife she was.
But stress and strain had been the order of the day for so long now that George had begun retreating into himself more than usual.
The loss of the American colonies, the deaths of Octavius and Alfred, and the trouble with Parliament had continued to build and build until her husband became so weighed down that he might have crumpled.
Might have.
He had not done so yet, but she feared he was close.
Not even the birth of Amelia nearly a year ago—whom they had taken to calling Emily—had soothed his troubles much. He doted on her, perhaps to an excess because of the loss of their sweet boys, but even her angelic disposition could not rid him of all his worries.
Charlotte did what she could to help him, but she was not involved in politics or strategy, and it was rare for him to confide in her regarding matters that pertained solely to his stewardship.
She had grown accustomed to the workings of the British monarchy, but George had never seemed so strained before.
And with the way things were, she had to wait for him to bring her into his confidence to even know what troubled him.
It hadn’t always been that way. They had been inseparable for much of their marriage, friends as well as lovers despite the arrangement of the match, but with time and children and responsibilities had come distance.
Not coldness, and certainly not infidelity, but a delineation of their roles that kept them remote, in some ways.
But when they were together . . .
Her George was still there. His Charlotte was still here. They were simply different now than they had been, and the adjustment was uncomfortable at times.
Particularly with thirteen living children adding to the complication of their lives.
The oldest boys were a significant part of that complication.
Pain tugged at Charlotte’s heart as she followed the footman.
Their eldest son Georgie, the Prince of Wales, had become a thorn in his father’s side, and she could only hope and pray that the king’s current request to speak with Charlotte did not concern the prince again.
She was running out of consolation to give in her letters to their son, not that she’d had much to begin with.
Georgie could not know the struggle his father had borne during his life and his reign, and thus the boy had grown up in comparative bliss and ease, leaving him spoiled and headstrong. He had been taught well, both by herself and her husband as well as by the best tutors and scholars, and yet . . .
She could only be grateful that, God willing, it would be some length of time before her son was crowned king. Perhaps he could find maturity and wisdom in the interim.
She would take one or the other, as either would be a marked improvement.
Both seemed too much to hope for.
The footman turned down a corridor that led to her husband’s study, and Charlotte had a moment of surprise.
Usually if she was sent for in this manner, George was in one of the more formal rooms with advisers or such.
But his study was usually where her husband indulged in his private fascination with agriculture and science, not politics or the kingdom.
It was intended to be his haven from the life of a monarch.
Was she about to invade his solitary reverie for something about which she knew nothing? About which she cared nothing? Or was this going to be a glimpse at the warm familiarity they had known early in their marriage?
Her heart warmed considerably at the thought.
She was not entirely beyond bursts of longing and whimsy at this point in her life, nor was she beyond wishing that they might be an ordinary married couple from time to time.
Their fifteen children and George’s lack of mistresses proved a certain degree of compatibility and affection, certainly.
Friendship, even, which was truly an enviable thing in any marriage.
But the monarchy ruled their lives and their marriage. Ruled everything. Reigned supreme.
Duty first. Duty above all else. Duty and loyalty.
Charlotte’s duty was to bear heirs and avoid embarrassment. Nothing more.
What was left for her after accomplishing those things? She had influence but no power. She had position but no authority. She had plenty of finery but no lasting significance.
The lot of a woman, even one on a throne, was paltry compared with that of a man.
George was a good, faithful, companionable husband. He never treated her as a lesser creature or a flight of fancy. She felt pure respect from him and appreciation for the life they shared together.
It could all be so much worse.
It could also bear some improvements.
Was it dreadful to think such dismal thoughts when she was in a fortunate situation compared to so many? A fishmonger’s wife had more authority in her home than Charlotte did in hers, and was that not also a mark of something significant?
Alas for station and fortune, and all the responsibilities and restrictions that came with it.
The footman stopped outside George’s study and knocked softly.
“Come.”
The footman opened the door and stepped inside, bowing his head for Charlotte to enter.
Fixing her mouth into a serene smile that had become her signature, Charlotte swept into the study, her eyes immediately falling upon the face of the person she loved most in this world.
“My king,” she greeted, curtsying deeply.
Her husband’s smile and dancing eyes met hers as she rose, his amusement at her formal greeting the same as it had been from the day they married. “My queen,” he replied in a warm tone.
The footman mumbled a quiet “Sire” and left the room, closing the study door behind him.
Only then did George’s smile fade into an expression of utter fatigue. “Oh, Charlotte . . .”
She tutted softly and approached his desk. “What is it, George?”
He held out a hand, which she clutched and kissed quickly. “It’s Georgie this time.”
Charlotte bit back a groan of irritation. Of course it was.
“What now?” she queried with impatience, rubbing George’s hand.
His jaw tensed. “He’s in company with Charles Fox regularly.
You know how I feel about that man, but now, all is much worse.
He is encouraging Georgie to drink, to gamble, and to spend, all recklessly and in excess.
And I have reason to believe that—” He swallowed hard.
“I believe they are also sharing mistresses.”
“Dear heavens.” Charlotte closed her eyes, giving her head a small shake.
Charles Fox had made no secret of his hatred for the king, referring to him as Satan in public and holding him personally responsible for the trouble with the American War.
Recently, someone at Brooks’s club for gentlemen had reported back that Fox and his cohorts had been placing wagers on the duration of George’s reign.
Had their son been involved in such mischief? Wagering against his own father?
The trouble was that Charles Fox was a charming and shrewd politician garnering much popularity in the ranks.
There was no getting rid of him, and, even worse, the man had formed a coalition with Lord North, whom George did approve of and find promising.
North’s connection to Fox had been a bitter pill to swallow, not because of any betrayal—Lord North did not care for Fox either—but because it had been necessary for the preservation of a stable government.
For the sake of appearances, at any rate.
It was difficult to see any redeeming qualities in the man when he caused her husband so much grief and was now holding undue influence over their eldest son.