Chapter 10
I cannot properly confess to you the terror that gripped me at the thought of possibly losing another child.
It is something I have seen twice before, as you know, and witnessing the slow decline into the grave of one I have given life to is an experience pulled from the depths of hell.
Watching my Elizabeth grow so weak, so lifeless, so lacking in her natural vitality and sharp wit, brought me back to those desperate days in a darkness so complete, only God can reach.
I would not have survived losing her, Antoinette.
There is not enough strength in me to lose another.
Praise God, I have not had to, and she is restored to us. Yet still my terror lives and breathes, afraid of this safety and threatened by absolutely everything.
Charlotte
Weeks. It had been weeks since Elizabeth had been out of danger, and still Charlotte could not bear to let her daughter out of her sight.
There was no terror quite like that of a mother preparing to lose her child, especially when she already knew the pain of such a loss.
Charlotte knew it twice over.
Elizabeth had always been a healthy, vivacious girl, so when she had taken ill and become too weak to leave her bed from fatigue, dizziness, and debilitating spasms, and when none of the doctors could have confidence in a diagnosis, the panic had set in.
Sleepless nights spent by Elizabeth’s bedside just to watch her breathe.
Anxious observation of the bleeding and blistering forced upon her daughter to rid her body of the illness, certain the pain inflicted was felt in her own.
Frantic examination of any other child with a cough or a sniffle for fear of a contagion.
The silence that stretched for hours was both a respite and a torment.
Some of the other children had contracted a whooping cough during Elizabeth’s convalescence, but none of them had taken any terrifying turns in their illnesses.
Charlotte was only just now able to sleep at night without dreaming of finding Elizabeth dead in her bed.
“Mama, you’re staring again,” Elizabeth announced without looking up from the pages of her book.
Charlotte’s throat tensed against emotion, her daughter’s dry mirth a balm so soothing she could not even manage embarrassment for having been caught in the act.
“I am not going to fall over, you know,” Elizabeth went on. “I have not taken faint in some time, and the doctor says I am returned to full health.”
“Yes, I was there,” Charlotte managed to say, her voice only slightly hoarse. “But your energy is not where it once was. You are far more sedate now, and I fear that you might—”
Elizabeth sighed dramatically. “I found a greater enjoyment in reading while I was in my sickbed, and now I wish to continue engaging in that enjoyable hobby, that is all. I can assure you, I feel very well.”
It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to confess that she had half expected the spirits of her departed sons to be waiting in a corner of Elizabeth’s bedchamber to escort her life away, but she remained silent.
Her children had adored their younger brothers and felt their loss keenly, but as they grew, the sting of those losses seemed to have lessened.
Only Charlotte and George seemed to still experience the constant, aching, gaping wounds of grief that cloaked them like a mantle.
The fear had not vanished, only the intensity of it.
But Elizabeth would only see an overbearing mother who could not let go of the pain of the past, and it would only make her more unruly in Charlotte’s company.
“Then I shall take your word for it,” Charlotte replied as she forced herself to return her attention to the latest letter from Marie Antoinette. She had attempted to read it four times in this sitting and had yet to progress beyond the first paragraph.
Now she found herself more engaged in the words as her friend detailed a complicated and convoluted tale of deception, subterfuge, and villainy.
All this fuss over an elaborate diamond necklace that Antoinette had no intention of purchasing?
It was the stuff of novels not reality, and yet, here was the proof of it.
And to have the villainess escape the hands of justice—what a nightmare!
Antoinette’s fears over her reputation were reasonable ones, as Charlotte had never known the French to be particularly rational.
Popular rumors and gossip were taken as truth and spread abroad, no matter what was done to prevent them.
She resolved to send a letter of support to give her friend something to smile about.
Perhaps a story of Emily and her antics with the dogs during the last attempt of sitting for a portrait.
Poor Mr. Copley had exercised great patience, doing his very best to capture the children and the animals with liveliness and dignity on the canvas, but the littlest girls were simply wilder than the older ones, and Emily, at only three, was exuberant in her energy.
Yes, Antoinette would smile over that.
A faint shuffling in the corridor drew Charlotte’s attention away from the letter, and she was startled to find her husband entering the sitting room, looking a trifle windswept.
“George,” she greeted, rising and giving a deferential curtsy. “I thought you were at St. James’s for the whole of the day.”
Lottie and Augusta entered behind him, looking at their father curiously.
George strode to Charlotte and plucked up her hands, kissing both quickly. “Here I am, safe and well, as you see. But I’ve very narrowly escaped being stabbed!” His face showed no hint of jest or humor, which could only mean—
Charlotte’s eyes widened as the room filled with gasps, and her daughters began sobbing uncontrollably.
Words were beyond her. She could only clutch her husband’s hands, the pressure on her fingers the only thing tethering her to the earth.
George held her gaze, and she felt as if every emotion rushed through her at once.
She tried to swallow, failed, and tried once more. Without removing her eyes from George, she spoke to the others in the room. “I envy you. I cannot cry!”
George enfolded her in his arms, rubbing her back gently. He began to chuckle, which seemed wholly inappropriate for the situation. “Come, come, enough with the tears and the fuss, all. Shall I tell you the ghastly tale?”
How in the world could he be so calm and in good humor? He had been attacked, nearly stabbed, and yet here he was with a smile and a laugh. Where were his guards? How had anyone managed to get close enough to be a danger with a blade?
“Yes, George,” Charlotte finally said, raising her face from his shoulder and forcing a calm she did not feel. “Tell us what happened.”
He stepped back and led her over to the collection of chairs in the room before beginning.
“I had just alighted from my carriage at St. James’s Palace,” he told them, wearing the strangest, most congenial smile.
“A decently dressed woman, who seemed to have been waiting for some time, approached me with a petition.”
This was rather common. People were always trying to get to them with petitions, so Charlotte simply nodded.
“As I bent forward to take it, she drew a knife, which she aimed straight at my heart!” He thumped a hand on his chest. “When I jumped back, she made a second thrust, which touched my waistcoat before I had time to prevent her. It was just as well she had not pushed any harder, or had a sharper blade, for there was nothing for her to go through but thin linen and fat.” He laughed heartily, patting his stomach for apparent proof.
No one else was laughing, but the girls had started to smile a little amidst their tears, likely more in response to their father’s peculiar sense of humor than any true amusement.
Charlotte was neither smiling nor laughing, the weight of death still heavy in the center of her chest.
George began pacing the room, deep in the throes of telling a great tale of adventure.
“As you can imagine, there was a great fuss once the public understood the danger. The assassin was seized by the populace, and they were in the midst of carrying her away when I called out to them.” He shook his head and gave Charlotte a sad look.
“I vow, I was the only calm and moderate person there.”
The fact that he was so should not have been astonishing, given George’s temperament, but it still made a shiver run down Charlotte’s stiffened spine.
“As I said, I called out to them and came forward, saying, ‘The poor creature is mad! Do not hurt her! She has not hurt me!’ For, in truth, she had not, and I had great sympathy for her. If you had seen her face . . . She bore such agony in her features, not ferocity. And the weapon was nothing more than a dessert knife, so it might have bruised me, but nothing more. She deserved assistance, not punishment.”
“What did you do next?” Lottie asked, her eyes wide.
George smiled softly at his oldest daughter. “Once I was satisfied that she was safe, I gave positive orders that she should be taken care of. Then I went into the palace and had my levee.”
Charlotte gaped at her husband, horror-struck and outraged. “You . . . you had your levee? After nearly being killed? You simply went on as though everything was as it should be?”
He turned to face her, daring to look surprised by her reaction.
“Yes. Would it have been better to be overcome with fear and distress and not face my people? To insist on sending everyone away and compound the already fraught situation with dramatics? I will not pretend to be unaffected by the events, but surely, a composed and present monarch is preferable to a discombobulated and absent one. By showing myself, I showed the people that all is well, there is nothing to fear, and I am safe.”
Charlotte paused to consider his words. Hadn’t she just been contemplating the power of rumors and their epidemic-like nature?
Truth or lies, it would not matter. If George had vanished from sight after an attack, they would claim he was wounded or even dead, despite his being well and whole.
Panic could line the streets, and fear for the stability of the monarchy could run rampant.
George had known that and had set aside his own concerns to ensure that stability remained.
Hadn’t she been praised for her composure and unflappable nature? Hadn’t she preached the importance of the same to her children?
Now she was the one who needed a reminder of that lesson, courtesy of her husband and his unfailing example of being exactly what he should be.
“And now,” George went on, filled with calmness and unconcern, “we must not postpone our regular routine of walking on the terrace.”
Anxiety surged through Charlotte. “What?”
Her husband nodded as he came to her and took her hands again. “We must. You and I, Charlotte, will show our faces and show we are not afraid.”
“But I am afraid,” she whispered for him alone.
George kissed her hands gently. “I know, my love. But they cannot know that, or they will also be afraid. And tonight, we will all go to the concert, just as we had planned.” He glanced over his shoulder at their daughters. “Dry your tears, girls. I am here and I am well.”
Sniffling chorused from them in response.
Pale and shaking, Charlotte allowed George to tug her toward the terrace, feeling as though the floor might crumble beneath her feet with every step.
Her fears were not for more blades being flung in their direction, but for the destruction of all she knew and loved, all she held dear.
Her very world suddenly felt as thin and fragile as a low-hanging mist, as incorporeal and fleeting.
As though at any second, it could vanish and leave her with nothing.
That was what had nearly been stolen from her today.
That was what threatened to break her heart piece by piece until only the bare minimum for life remained.
The first piece had been Alfred, then Octavius.
She had feared Elizabeth would die and break off another.
Losing George—her whole heart would break to lose him.
She could not bear it. Could not bear any more loss, and the fear of such losses was enough to bring her to her knees.
Only, she could not crumple now. Could not bend. Could not bow.
She had to be Charlotte, Queen of England, wife and consort to King George III of Great Britain and Ireland. A woman of no emotion, no fear, no weakness.
Hardly a woman at all, but a figure. A statue.
A porcelain doll.
Lifeless.
But she was so full of life beneath that delicate surface.
Near to bursting with it. Her blood pulsed through her veins with a furious intensity, especially where her fingers clung to her husband’s hand.
Fingers that curled into his hold the way she wished she could curl into him and be held until her body no longer shook and her soul was no longer trembling.
She had almost lost him. Without him, she would be nothing. Of course, she would no longer be queen, but her entire self had become so entwined with him throughout the years that Charlotte simply did not exist without George. Monarchy or not, wealth or not, status or not.
It was not a simple matter of station and connection.
It was that George held her heart, and if he was gone, no one else could.
Throat constricting with renewed emotion, Charlotte gripped George’s hand more tightly. “I have you still,” she whispered as they walked the terrace. “I have you still.”
He returned her grip. “And I have you.”