Chapter 19
I have taken to hiding from my children for fear that they will see my distress and anxieties. My hair has turned a shocking shade of gray. My son is undertaking a strategic bid for his father’s throne that Shakespeare might admire. I know not where my life leads or what I may yet do.
I have never been more afraid in my life nor felt more powerless.
Charlotte
“Emily! Emily! Bring me my Emily! And the queen. I want Charlotte too. Charlotte and Emily!”
Charlotte closed her eyes over tears, a rarity for her to shed, but there wasn’t anything for it.
She had been driven to them after months of George’s erratic behavior and incomprehensible delusions.
He had grown violently agitated when provoked, could not sleep for more than two or three hours at a time, spoke words and phrases so inappropriate and indecent it made his servants blush, and sunk into a miserable depression so dangerous he required constant supervision.
He had even professed love for another woman, one that the entire staff, as well as Charlotte, knew that he had never entertained in a manner that was not perfunctory, polite, and formal.
And still it had crushed Charlotte to hear.
The trip to Cheltenham earlier in the year had been the last burst of normalcy she had seen in George that had lasted longer than a single day.
His health had improved shortly after their arrival, and the five weeks of holiday and taking the waters had been sheer bliss and delight.
George had been in high spirits and enjoyed looking at the industrial prosperity of the area, something that most people would find unusual for a king.
But once they returned to Windsor, George had begun to decline again.
Stomach cramps seized him violently and rendered him speechless, making Charlotte run out in her shift to demand the apothecary come.
Pain in his legs prevented him from walking first thing in the morning.
Weakness and fatigue plagued him. He had begun to argue with and attack his servants and physicians.
His skin grew mottled at times and red at others.
His energy became frantic and rushed, his thoughts running together without any coherency.
He called for Emily often, and the poor thing was growing frightened of being with him.
She was only five years of age, and her papa was one of her best friends and playtime companions, but this new version of him was too strange, too foreign to bring her comfort.
Yet she brought him comfort, which put the entire household in a complex situation when George wanted to see her.
George was certain that he was himself, but it was evident to everyone witnessing his behavior that he was anything but.
He spoke more than usual and more rapidly, the varieties of subjects strange and confusing, all of it enough that his ministers recommended to George that he be a little more silent.
He was still kind and good, for the most part, and the servants did not fear him, but Charlotte had caught more than one set of questioning looks after a random conversation with the king.
Charlotte did not need servants or her daughters to tell her that she was changed by all of this as well.
She was uneasy and anxious most of the time, rarely smiled or felt any feelings of warmth or pleasure, even in small doses.
One of her ladies had described her composure of late as glacial, and Charlotte agreed.
She could not be seen to react when George was strumming the entire spectrum of climactic reactions from one moment to the next.
The more irrational he became, the more rational she had to be. The more dramatic he was, the less dramatic she could be. The more volatile he grew, the less emotional she could be.
She was steadily and surely becoming immovable, unfeeling, vacant, and indifferent. Nothing could affect her. Nothing would provoke her. Nothing would alter her state of being.
Outwardly, at any rate.
Because it was impossible for her to truly become indifferent about anything where her husband was concerned.
It did not help that additional doctors had been called in to assist in diagnosing George and formulating treatment plans.
Dr. Warren was still there, but now there was also Dr. Willis, and Charlotte had somehow placed all her hopes on Dr. Willis, as he seemed to be the only one who did not bow the knee for George where his care was concerned.
Dr. Warren and the others were particularly defeatist when reporting to her regarding George’s condition, whereas Dr. Willis focused on the progress he was making, even if it was marginal.
The doctors did not get along with each other, and members of the family, staff, and government were beginning to take sides, turning the palace into a war zone.
Whispers were beginning to fly from the prime minister and Privy Council about the need for a regency until the king was restored, and the prime candidate for that regency was, naturally, Georgie.
Charlotte was terrified of giving her son such power and authority when he had caused the family and the throne such trouble already.
He was wasteful and disrespectful, focused on satisfying his own needs no matter how hedonistic, and his interest in anything political was purely for selfish and social reasons.
He would seize the power given to him and then do whatever he could to keep George incapacitated so his own sovereignty could progress.
He would be king without the fuss of a funeral for the previous one.
Georgie did not have the maturity to reign in the same vein his father had, and with uncertainty growing in France, it would only tarnish the respect due to Britain in a troubled time.
Many in the government knew this to be true, but they still preferred Georgie as regent rather than Charlotte.
Yes, Charlotte was also being considered for the role, and in her heart of hearts, she was desperate for it.
Not because being the voice of the monarch was a role she coveted, but because she knew her husband and his thoughts so well that she would be able to ensure that his reign continued as he would want.
She would keep his legacy intact while he continued to heal so that his restoration to the throne would be a seamless continuation of time.
But Charlotte could not be a woman of ambition, particularly where the crown was concerned.
She could not be seen to be participating in politics or meeting with ministers.
She could not campaign for the position, even in a social realm.
She had to sit and wait, reading the doctors’ reports and attempting to discuss a prognosis, acting as the queen while the position was still hers.
She had little power now as it was, but she still held some influence.
But if Georgie became regent, she would become irrelevant.
Invisible.
Insignificant.
It was as though England had forgotten the power that had come to them from their queens of history, and only the kings were worth discussing.
Charlotte fervently hoped that George would recover from this mysterious illness that had rendered him so altered and unstable. Then she would not have to worry about vying with her own son to maintain all that she and her husband had worked for in his reign.
A distant yell brought Charlotte out of her reverie, and she felt a sudden chill against her cheeks.
She swiped at them, finding tracks of tears there.
How long had she been sitting in silence, crying?
If any of the servants or staff had seen her, they would be just as concerned for her as they were for George.
She could not give them more to talk about.
“Charlotte! Charlotte!” George burst into the sitting room, looking wild and unkempt. “There you are!” he cried, relieved. He rushed to her and took her hands. “I have reordered my will!”
Charlotte rose quickly, uneasiness clutching her chest. “Why? George, you need to rest and recover, not think so disastrously.”
He shook his head. “No, they cannot diagnose me properly. They tell me I have gout, they tell me I have water on the brain, I need to be bled, I need to be blistered, I need to be dosed with this and that, perhaps even a poultice. They know nothing, and I must have you all prepared. I have set everything in order, and now I may breathe freely for you.” He reached out a finger and toyed with one of her curls.
“Your hair is turning gray so rapidly. This business is weighing on your body and soul. It needs to end.”
“No,” Charlotte whimpered, her eyes filling with unshed tears again.
“No, George. I don’t care about being gray, I don’t care about retreating from the public eye, I don’t care about the weight.
I care about you! George, I need you to take courage.
I think we ought to strengthen ourselves under our afflictions, and I have confidence that God will not inflict more than we are able to bear. ”
George smiled and moved his hands to her waist, tugging her closer. “Then you are prepared for the worst.” He kissed her, rather fiercely for the state he had been in lately and rather passionately for their usual displays of affection outside of the bedchamber.
It held a terrifying edge of finality and desperation, as though he was going to depart this world and leave her forever and was preparing himself for the long separation ahead.
Her tears began to flow, and she gripped his face in her hands to continue this embrace, needing to feel this moment with him, this lucid if pessimistic version of the man to whom she had vowed her heart and her life.
She had given it freely and received so much more in return.
George broke off and touched his brow to hers, breathing unsteadily. “I am afraid, Charlotte,” he whispered, his voice slower and more like his usual manner.
Choking back a sob, Charlotte nodded against him. “So am I.”