Chapter 17
And so we are to spend the summer in Cheltenham, my eldest girls, the king, and myself.
I believe it is long overdue for the king to have a respite.
Between the antics of the Prince of Wales, the sudden bouts of longing for our lost sons, and recent political feuding weighing on his mind, he has been rather low in spirits and prone to speaking less and less.
Sometimes he is so pale and drawn, I would have called him unwell, but he has maintained all of his engagements.
He lives such a healthy, full, sensible life, I cannot fathom the strain upon him, and I long to have my dearest George returned to me in all his wondrous glory.
Charlotte
“Must we really admit the Adamses again? Haven’t they already taken their leave officially? We are to go to Cheltenham imminently!”
Charlotte bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling, more because it would alarm her daughter to see any positive expression when the Adams name was mentioned. And, truly, Charlotte was not especially thrilled to continue the acquaintance, given the fuss that must be endured.
But she did not hate Abigail Adams.
Not officially and not personally.
Cool disdain was expected of the queen of England under the circumstances, but there was no true animosity, and Abigail would know that now, even if Charlotte could not display it openly.
Those two days in Calais last autumn had been a welcome respite for Charlotte, just as she’d suspected it would be, but she had not been prepared for the comradery she had found with Antoinette and Abigail.
Her letters with Antoinette over the years had given her a sense of friendship, even if it was somewhat distant due to the limited medium of ink and paper, but being in her presence had been far and away more brilliant.
And Abigail Adams was remarkable, though Charlotte would have been the last person to think so before this.
But Abigail spoke with frankness and wisdom.
She was well read, well educated, and filled with compassion and concern for her fellow man.
Or woman, as it were.
Would they be the best of friends? No, not at all, and their innocent disagreements during their time in Calais would prove that.
But she could trust Abigail Adams, and she understood her.
Wonder of wonders.
It really was for the best that the Adamses were returning to America. England was not prepared to forgive quite yet, let alone to link themselves with their former colonists for mutually beneficial arrangements. Someday, perhaps, but that was not this day.
She could only imagine how frustrating the time in England had been for an ambitious, dedicated man such as John Adams, and Abigail would have had to cope with the frustrations her husband endured.
Surely their married life would improve with Mr. Adams feeling as though he were actually doing something of use.
Charlotte doubted that she and Abigail would be exchanging many letters once the latter ventured back across the ocean, but she would not rule it out.
And if Antoinette happened to need additional support, Charlotte would not hesitate to let Abigail know, on the off chance that Antoinette attempted to keep such matters to herself.
The two of them would certainly unite for the sake of their friend, should it be required.
Returning her attention to her daughter, Charlotte offered a patronizing smile.
“Yes, they have taken their leave officially, but we are still to provide them this as a sign of good faith and future connections. We must, Lottie. But only briefly, so you may rest easy. Polite faces, polite words, nothing more.”
Lottie groaned, and the face she made in her looking glass belonged on a much younger, much more opinionated woman.
Her daughter was not pleased to be without a husband.
Yet Charlotte and George had not yet been able to settle on a suitable candidate for any of their daughters—George because no one seemed good enough and Charlotte because she was not ready for her daughters to marry off.
There was plenty of time, in her estimation, and there would always be men who wished to have royal wives.
“Your Majesty!” a frantic voice called, drawing her attention and sending her to her feet in anticipation.
Frantic, dramatic voices were not typical in their home at Kew, and disruption was never a welcome sign.
One of her ladies burst into the room, her cheeks flushed and her hair in disarray.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked sharply, clasping her hands before her to keep them from shaking.
“It’s the king!” she replied in distress.
Images of the attempted stabbing from all those months ago sprang to mind, stiffening Charlotte’s spine and making her heart skitter like a restless filly. She could not show her distress, her fear, her anxiety.
Calm. She must be calm.
“Wh-what about the king?” she inquired, skipping quickly over the brief stammer.
Her lady took notice of Charlotte’s demeanor and straightened into a more perfect posture.
Good.
“He was supposed to meet with Mr. Pitt today,” her lady told her, “but the king has been so bilious, so unwell, from yesterday morning until this very moment, that he cannot leave his bed, not even to go to town.”
Relief was the first sensation Charlotte felt and understood. George was not injured, he was not dead, and he was not in danger. He was unwell and indisposed.
She could cope with that.
The second sensation Charlotte felt, if belatedly, was concern.
George was a strong, healthy, hale man, one who was active and enjoyed working the land as a hobby, much to the dismay of his finer associates.
Other than a scare of tuberculosis some years before and the stomach pains from stress last year, he had almost never been anything less than hearty.
For him to be abed for more than a night and to be vomiting . . .
A prickle of dread tingled at the base of her throat, and Charlotte nodded as she tried to determine her preferred course of action. “Thank you. Has Dr. Warren been sent for?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. He has been several times.”
As Charlotte had hoped, her lady had a steady, even tone. No traces of panic, no sign of fear.
“And?” Charlotte pressed. “What does he suggest?”
Her lady exhaled slowly. “It would seem that the king has been feeling unwell for some time, Your Majesty, but not so unwell as to take to his bed. The trip to Cheltenham is more than taking a holiday; Dr. Warren wishes for the king to take the waters there for medicinal purposes.”
Oh.
That changed the scope of things. Her robust husband was being treated like an invalid? By a reasonable medical professional? And her husband was indulging it?
George would never have agreed to a holiday for medicinal purposes unless he, too, had concerns about his health.
Why had he not said anything to her? Why was he not allowing her to be by his side, tending to him as she had so often done in the past?
She was no delicate flower who could not stomach the sight of such things.
She had given birth to fifteen children, for heaven’s sake.
She had seen and endured just about everything embarrassing, vulnerable, and disgusting that existed in the world.
“I shall go and see the king,” Charlotte announced.
Her lady-in-waiting appeared unsure and hesitant. Curious.
“What?” she demanded, losing her composed demeanor for a moment.
“The king is . . . delirious,” her lady admitted in a low voice.
“Barely sensible. The doctor suggested that we let the king rest and prepare our departure for Cheltenham now instead of waiting. Then the king might be given a stronger dose of laudanum to rest for the journey and perhaps recover himself.”
None of this was making sense, and Charlotte had a very low tolerance for things that did not make sense. But it seemed she was not required to understand or be involved in decision-making or in tending to her husband.
So, what was left but to obey the orders of her king?
Orders she hadn’t had a hand in making.
Unease seeped into her mind and sent a chill through her frame.
This was not how their marriage worked, and she was not about to let that change now.
They were a partnership, as much as could be with George being the king and her being his consort, but they shared a stronger bond than that.
A stronger friendship than that. Stronger respect than that.
Until now.
Until she was treated like a simple wife of a king.
A king who had not sent for her to help him in his hour of need.
What was happening to her carefully constructed life?
Clearing her throat, Charlotte looked at her lady-in-waiting. “Please send a note to Mr. and Mrs. Adams sending our regrets that a final audience cannot take place. Say nothing of the king’s status and give them our best wishes for their travels home.”
Her lady bobbed a curtsy before leaving the room, and Charlotte sank back into her chair, her hands shaking.
“Mama,” Lottie said in a quivering voice, “surely Papa cannot be as unwell as she suggested.”
Charlotte closed her eyes and shook her head. “I have never heard him be so, but there is no benefit in lying to us. He must truly be ill, which means that Dr. Warren’s insistence on Cheltenham is more meaningful.”
“But why Cheltenham? Why not Bath for the waters?”
It was a reasonable question, but Charlotte had no answer. After all, the doctor had been tending to the king and following his orders and wishes, not hers. She knew nothing.
Nothing.
“I am certain we shall understand a great deal more by and by,” Charlotte told her daughter, forcing her eyes open and rubbing at her brow. “You know your father—he will recover quickly and soon be back to himself.”
Lottie smiled and nodded before leaving the room, likely going to her own rooms to oversee the remainder of her packing.
Alone at last, Charlotte covered her face with both hands, struggling to find a steady breath in her lungs. The idea of George being delirious was worse than anything else she had heard. He was so quick, so brilliant and sharp. His being so unwell that his mind was affected terrified her.
She needed to visit the chapel and pray for his recovery. God alone could restore him to his usual health in body and mind, no matter how much medicinal water he took in Cheltenham. And she wanted to enjoy the holiday as well as help him recover. Would it really be too much to have both?
Georgie was probably secretly married. Frederick and William were only slightly better behaved. Lottie had no husband and would soon turn two-and-twenty. And the rest . . .
There would never be an easy time of parenting thirteen children as well as standing beside the king of England. There would never be a time when she did not have mountains of concerns and issues to contend with.
But the idea of George not being of sound body and mind, even for a few days, made the prospect of going even a single day amidst her usual stresses one of overwhelming hopelessness.
She was not Charlotte without George.
So for the time being they would go to Cheltenham, do every single thing Dr. Warren prescribed, and enjoy each moment of respite. She had told Antoinette that she needed to live in the moment and not wish to dictate the future, and now she had to believe her own words.
All would be well once they were in Cheltenham. It would solve everything that was impacting George and bring him back to himself.
It had to.