Chapter 7 #2
It was all Charlotte could do not to lean into George for that statement.
Her dear, sweet, logical yet sentimental husband was too good to be king.
Such a role was as limiting as it was empowering, and he would never be able to reach his full potential without the freedom that was only possible away from the expectations, eyes, and responsibilities of court.
He could be the best of all men in every respect were it not for the crown ever-looming over his decisions, thoughts, and actions.
What a blessed, blissful life they could have had had another son been born before him. If he had not always been destined to be king of England. If he could have truly been Farmer George without the mockery embedded in the name.
But wishes were not for kings and queens.
Not real wishes, at any rate. They could have anything they desired, so long as there was a monetary value attached to it.
No desire of the heart that held any intrinsic, spiritual, or whimsical nature was truly possible.
They could not run away, they could not live their own lives, they could not marry where they wished, they could not see their friends without fear of betrayal or extensive planning, they could not ever truly be alone.
They could not be people. Individuals. Creatures of heart and dreams and ambition.
They were toy soldiers and dolls, pulled this way and that, forced into playing a game they had neither agreed to nor decided upon.
As they approached the drawing room, Charlotte could hear the distinct murmuring of many voices behind the closed door mingling with the string quartet they had arranged for to make the gathering feel pleasant and intimate instead of what it was.
A chance for those seeking favor to claim a few minutes of a royal’s attention, however unimpressive and fleeting that interaction might be.
They paused at the door, waiting for lords- and ladies-in-waiting to take position with them. They would be the ones providing introductions and facilitating the interactions between guests and ensuring that all went smoothly throughout the evening as far as time and attention was concerned.
The doors were flung open, the music stopped, every eye in the drawing room was suddenly upon them, and the room was filled with a collective yet silent gasp.
“His Majesty, King George III; Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte; Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal; Her Royal Highness, Princess Augusta; and Her Royal Highness, Princess Elizabeth!”
“That was quite a mouthful,” Charlotte said through her smile for her husband’s ear alone.
He nudged her gently, his lips quirking, before leading her into the room. They paused for the required deference from the room as a whole, and then separated to move around the circle in opposite directions.
It was all so habitual by now, so without thought, that their motions must have appeared fluid and easy to the company. But it was all very practiced, very scripted, and very irksome. For once, just once, Charlotte would love to make her way around the circle of guests beside her husband.
“Good day to you,” Charlotte said to the person just presented to her, whose name she had already forgotten. “Quite a fine thing for the weather to have shifted as it did, is it not?”
Their smiles were bright and eager, and over something so drab as the weather. But to speak with a queen was a heady thing, regardless of topic, she supposed.
How long had it been since a conversation had been heady to Charlotte?
So long, she supposed, that she could not recall any at all.
Dreadful prospect.
Hours passed as she and the girls made their way around the circle, saying nothing of importance or interest and hearing even less.
The faces all blurred together, as did the fashions.
Plain, drab, and all too similar. But her daughters were still in the stage of their lives where social interaction of any kind was a treat, even if they were family and Crown representatives, so their eager, bright tones offered a sweet harmony to her lower, more sedate one.
They would learn one day to conserve their energies in any way possible, including tone of voice and physical vivacity, but for now, their youth could maintain the requisite manners.
“I hope she asks me something other than if I walked today,” muttered a voice in an accent that was not quite British, the words so soft that Charlotte almost missed them. “Imagine standing here for two hours waiting only to be asked the same question as everyone else.”
The voice was shushed, and Charlotte fought the urge to smirk.
So someone was unimpressed by this event and its progression, were they? Oddly refreshing, considering most everyone pretended to enjoy every moment. Frankness, so long as it never veered into rudeness, was quite diverting, in the right circumstances.
Gliding to the next trio, Charlotte found herself lifting her chin just a touch.
“Mr. and Mrs. John Adams, and their daughter, Miss Adams, Your Majesty.”
Charlotte’s cheeks heated with a sudden embarrassed indignation, and by the rising flush and barely visible smile on Mrs. Adams’s face, it was clear she felt much the same.
Charlotte noted a flash in Mrs. Adams’s eyes, the sense of an equal distaste—if not loathing—that mirrored Charlotte’s earlier feelings.
Yet the lady and her daughter had dressed rather well indeed for the occasion, both wreathed in white silks and white feathers, lilac ribbons for accents, and pearls. Nary a hair out of place and perfectly blending in with the gathered ladies.
There was no rustic rebel attire here, at least.
Tempted beyond reason to ask about walking just for spite, Charlotte allowed her practiced smile to spread. “Mrs. Adams, have you got your house? Pray, how do you like the situation of it?”
Mrs. Adams blinked rapidly, her expression carefully blank. “We have, Your Majesty, only just. Grosvenor Square, number eight, and I have no reason to be displeased by its situation.”
Well, at least she pronounced that correctly.
“A fine location, indeed,” Charlotte praised without inflection. “Enviable, even. Let us hope it proves to be a refuge for you all amidst the hustle and bustle of business. One’s residence ought to be a place of rest, do you not agree?”
“I do, Your Majesty.”
Agreement. Between them. What a triumph.
Charlotte nodded shortly before glancing at the pretty Miss Adams. “Miss Adams, have you been to a concert since your arrival?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the girl chimed in a light, soft tone unlike the stiff one her mother used. “Handel at Westminster Abbey. We were all quite transported.”
Her impulse to smile could not be fought. “Handel does that rather well, and the Abbey is a fine location for him.”
Lottie stepped forward. “Such travel for you all, Mrs. Adams, coming from France. Are you quite fatigued? I’m sure I should be, moving hither and thither like that.”
Compassion and affability poured from Lottie, and Charlotte did not have to look to know her daughter’s expression would be filled with it.
“A little, Your Highness,” Mrs. Adams replied, as relaxed with Lottie as Charlotte had been with her daughter. “But I keep quite busy at home, so I know nothing else.”
“And this room!” Lottie laughed once. “So full and crowded! I do not know why we invite so many people at once, but I am never consulted on these things.”
That made the trio of Americans laugh, as well as Lottie, and Charlotte felt a stroke of pride for her eldest daughter. To laugh in the company of royals over good wit was always remembered and would go a long way to soothe ruffled feathers.
And it seemed both Charlotte and Mrs. Adams had ruffled feathers aplenty.
Augusta cleared her throat timidly, startling Charlotte. “Miss Adams, have you been to England before?”
Charlotte’s throat constricted as a tide of emotion rose within her. Augusta fought so hard against her shyness and often said nothing at all in company, but with this daughter of an expatriate, this child of the American War, whose parents made Charlotte grind her teeth, she could speak?
What fresh twist of fate was this?
“Yes, Your Highness,” Miss Adams replied, still bright and delightful. “But long ago, I suppose, when I was very young. I confess, I remember none of it.”
“Then you shall see it with fresh eyes,” Augusta said, her voice stronger. “I am quite envious.”
Miss Adams beamed, and her parents’ expressions told Charlotte they were as pleased with her as she was with her own daughters.
Congeniality with the former enemy. Who would have thought?
“A pleasant day to you, Mr. Adams, Mrs. Adams, Miss Adams,” Charlotte intoned, dipping her chin as regally as she knew how.
“Your Majesty,” they murmured in the sort of family unison that spoke of good relations between them.
Yet Mrs. Adams’s eyes never quite lowered to full deferential levels.
How amusing. How different.
How like Charlotte’s own personal taste.
Intriguing.
Charlotte moved on, barely hearing the next introduction, her thoughts unwillingly dwelling on the brief conversation she had dreaded all day and her curiosity over those involved.