Chapter 15
My heart is filled with sorrow for you, dearest Antoinette.
I have prayed fervently for your precious Sophie as well as for you.
No pain can compare with that of losing a child, and I will not coddle you by professing that it will improve with time.
It will not. You will manage to bear it, and eventually the bearing of it becomes less noticeable.
But it will always be there as part of you.
Grief, my friend, comes from love, and you would not wish to love your girl less in order to make your pain more palatable, would you?
No, you must continue to love her in your loss and allow the grief to be your comfort, as you loved her well.
For our family here, we have very little by way of news.
My older sons do not speak to me, rumors abound that Elizabeth bore two illegitimate children during her illness last year, and George’s sister is desperate for her son to marry the Princess Royal.
But his sister is, according to George, tactless, indiscreet, and prone to troublemaking—what a delight!
—so it would likely behoove us to avoid her wishes.
We have enough trouble of our own to contend with.
Charlotte
“My apologies, Your Majesty. The king is indisposed and cannot meet you at this time.”
Charlotte stared at George’s lord-in-waiting in confusion. “What do you mean he is indisposed? Has a doctor been summoned?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. The doctor is seeing to him at this time.” He remained resolute and somber, clearly not about to tell her more than that.
Charlotte might have been many things, but submissive was not one of them.
“And why was I not sent for when it was clear that the king was indisposed and in need of a physician?” she asked with all the imperiousness she could muster.
Which happened to be a very great deal.
The lord-in-waiting swallowed, his eyes widening. “Erm . . . the king requested that we . . . erm, that Your Majesty not be informed until he . . . that is, we . . . knew more.”
“I see.” Charlotte smiled primly, not letting her irritation show. “Take me to see the king.”
The man gaped at her. “But . . . but Your Majesty—”
“Are you refusing to accommodate your queen?” she asked with a slight tilt to her head.
“No!” he cried at once. “No, Your Majesty, I would never . . .” His shoulders slumped, and he nodded. “Please, follow me, Your Majesty.”
Charlotte hid a smile as she let the man escort her to her husband’s rooms. She knew the way, of course, even with how large the residence was, but no one would dream of letting the queen find her own way or walk unescorted.
Though she was perfectly capable of walking by herself at any given time.
Privacy was a privilege she rarely had.
Her mind swirled with questions. Why would he not want her aware of his being unwell? She had sat by his bedside a few times over the years they had been married, and heaven knew he had been by hers. To intentionally leave her out of the decision to call for a doctor was not like George at all.
How long had he been feeling this way? Had he been suddenly struck down with illness, or had this been building recently?
Had he been hiding his discomfort from her while they discussed possible marriage candidates for their daughters and various other matters?
They had discussed France yesterday over a plate of sandwiches, for heaven’s sake!
She’d never have brought up the worries she had for Marie Antoinette in that nation of tigers if she’d known that George was feeling ill.
Even if she was concerned for her friend.
Antoinette had just buried her little girl, and the tear-stained letter Charlotte had received had nearly broken her heart.
Her friend had suffered miscarriages before, but never the loss of a child she had nursed and snuggled and seen take their first steps.
Not one whose eyes lit up when their father entered the room or giggled at the antics of an older sibling.
Not one whose tears she had kissed away and whose nights had been spent in her arms.
She had begged Charlotte to help her in her grief. To tell her how to survive every dawn with its emptiness and every dusk with its tears. To teach her how to live with a broken heart that was somehow still beating. To assure her that, somehow, life would go on and there would be joy again.
Not only days of endless sorrow.
It had been agony to read, and Charlotte would have loved nothing more than to sit with her husband and cry for her friend, but George refused to talk about their losses of their own sweet boys. It was too much, too difficult, too soon.
Charlotte had to confine her agony to silence and find her way through the pain alone. She did not need to discuss her lost sons often, but avoiding the topic entirely for the sake of her husband’s feelings meant it was as if they never existed, and that was a far more grievous pain.
She knew George did not see it that way. She knew he had adored them and loved them so deeply that his grief was unbearable. But she did not grieve in the same way, and she did not wish to always be alone in her version of that darkness.
She would not leave Antoinette alone in hers.
She’d sent off her reply that very morning, but it had left her heart tender and raw with an ache that could not be soothed.
Which was why she had asked if George could see her.
She might not have been able to confide in him about what Antoinette was enduring or how it had made Charlotte feel, but being in her husband’s presence might give her enough relief to breathe without pain.
The lord-in-waiting gave two succinct knocks at the king’s bedchamber, waiting for a response before pushing the door open and letting Charlotte in.
Formality and procession were the order of her life, and probably her breath, if someone could figure that out too.
She strode in as if she had every right to be here—though the king could technically banish her from every inch of this palace—and immediately saw her husband sprawled in his bed, covered in a sheen of perspiration, breathing raggedly while the doctor examined him.
He did not look pale, but he certainly looked uncomfortable.
As though on cue, he grimaced and curled inward, his hands gripping at his stomach.
“Basin, Your Majesty?” the doctor asked without much concern.
George shook his head as he panted through his pain. “Just . . . hurts.” He rolled to his side, toward the doctor, and moaned.
Tutting softly, Charlotte moved to that side of the bed and took George’s hand from his stomach, holding it in her own before using her free hand to brush his hair back from his clammy brow. “My king,” she murmured.
“Charlotte,” George groaned through gritted teeth. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“And where should I be when my husband is in pain?” she asked him, smiling fondly. “How dare you try to keep me away.”
“Try being the operative word,” he grunted. A few breaths escaped him through pursed lips, his hold on her hand bordering on the punishing. “Forgive me.”
Charlotte crouched, despite the lack of queenly behavior. “Already done. Now hush.” She stroked his hair gently, as though she could send some comfort into his body by the action.
He nodded, seeming to curl further into himself, never relinquishing his grip on her.
After a moment, Charlotte looked over at the doctor. “What are your conclusions, Doctor?”
The man was hardly older than they were, but he seemed calm and steady, even in the face of George’s agony. That was an oddly soothing sight.
No one wanted a panicking physician at their bedside, and tending to a royal patient could sometimes have that effect.
“His Majesty’s rather acute abdominal cramping and pain,” the doctor began, rolling his sleeves back, “seem to have been brought on by an undue amount of stress. Based on his diet and level of activity, I do not suspect any issues there, and all bowel sounds are present and regular. He has complained of feeling nauseous, but it is unproductive.”
The level of detail was unexpected for Charlotte, but decades of schooling her features kept her composed.
If the doctor wanted to share more than she needed to know, who was she to argue?
Better to know too much than too little, and if he thought her capable of understanding the medical terminology, all the better.
He was not treating her like some delicate female, which she could appreciate well.
“Your suggestions for treatment?” Charlotte asked. “Will you bleed him?”
He shook his head, his mouth turning down.
“Not unless he grows feverish, Your Majesty. I believe some laudanum to ease the pain will be our best course to begin. Once he is settled, I may perform some abdominal maneuvers to ease the pressure, but it will entirely depend upon His Majesty’s state at the time.
I would encourage some walking when he is able. ”
“Walking?” Charlotte repeated incredulously. “Really?”
His nod was firm and certain. “Entirely, Majesty. Physical exertion of a steady nature is quite good for digestion, while lying abed can turn it sluggish.”
“Perhaps we should all sleep upright like horses,” Charlotte mused, not bothering to keep the bite out of her tone.
The doctor’s mouth quirked. “I would not argue the point, Your Majesty, though the balance of two feet does not quite equate that of four. I believe the horses have the better idea.”
Charlotte smirked and gave him a slight nod of approval, after which he moved to begin preparing the laudanum. She returned her attention to George. “How long have you been like this?”
“All day,” her husband groaned. “Started last night, but not . . . bad until today.”
She leaned in and kissed his damp brow. “Did something happen to cause you distress?”