Chapter 19 #2
For a long moment, they stood together, savoring the connection between them.
A pause in the chaos, a much-needed breath in the suffocation of their lives, and Charlotte would have given anything to remain just like this for days.
Weeks.
Forever.
“I need to face the medical minions,” George murmured as his thumbs stroked her cheeks.
“See what they believe is wrong with me today. If I am not myself for the rest of the day—or for however long this lasts—know that I love you. Even if I myself cannot remember. My true self loves you so ardently.”
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, her throat constricting painfully. “I love you,” she rasped in return.
He nuzzled his nose against hers briefly, then turned and left without another look.
She stared at the doorway before collapsing into her chair and releasing agonizing sobs that wracked her chest. Covering her mouth to muzzle the sound, she let herself cry, let herself keen, let herself break into a thousand pieces that only George could restore.
No one could know she had done this, and no one would see it, but George would know that her heart was still his.
Would always be his.
It was several long minutes before she felt that she could breathe through her tears, and even longer before her complexion and eyes returned to their usual appearance.
She could not venture out of this room until there was no trace of her emotions visible, until she was once again the statue everyone expected her to be.
Then and only then did she make her way out of her sitting room and toward her husband’s receiving room.
George would not be there, and she needed to see if her oldest son was inserting himself into conversations that were not yet his to take on.
The low hum of voices confirmed to Charlotte that there were, indeed, meetings taking place without her presence, conversations regarding the status and nature of the king without involving the queen.
The reports being sent to the government were not being kept as private as she would have wished, and now a horde of vipers debated the best course of action without the figures at the head of the kingdom.
The symbolic head, at any rate. The prime minister clearly knew all the necessary details, and she would only be able to judge him if he were in the room as well.
Without knocking or bidding the footmen open the door for her, she pushed into the room, her legs shaking with sudden nerves. She needed to be every inch the imposing queen, wearing her mask of indifference but with a towering strength to defend her husband at all costs.
The room was filled with men, members of the cabinet and the Privy Council, Dr. Warren, and her son Georgie, the Prince of Wales.
So that was it. Dr. Warren was giving his own reports instead of keeping the information contained. Georgie had been given the ropes necessary to bind his parents to his will so long as the medical men could support his decisions with their prognosis of the king.
Traitors, all.
“Ah, Mother,” Georgie greeted with a smile that held no hint of warmth. “I was going to send for you.”
Charlotte glared at him, willing an added measure of iciness into it to match his temperament. “And who are you to send for me, my son?”
The other men in the room looked at each other, the tension rising noticeably.
Good. She had intended to remind them all that she was the queen of England while her son was merely the Prince of Wales.
The king still lived, and no regency had been settled on.
Until those issues were resolved, she was still a figure of respect.
Georgie did not look at anyone but Charlotte, his face as implacable as hers. “The decision has been made, based on the doctors’ recommendations, to remove the king to the palace at Kew.”
Kew? But George loved Windsor so much, viewed the place as a symbol of the life he had created and striven for, the continuity of his line and family.
It was where he felt most rooted. Wouldn’t his comfort and ease be better here than in a place that he barely tolerated?
During his frenetic moments of despair and delusion, shouldn’t his happiness be considered?
“Is the king aware of this decision?” Charlotte asked her son, knowing full well what the answer would be. George would never have been so composed during their brief interlude if he had known about such a move.
Not this version of George. Not this ill George. Not this usurped George.
“He is not,” Georgie replied without concern. “Dr. Warren?”
The doctor stepped forward with only a hint of shame in his expression. Was that for his behavior or for having to admit his actions to Charlotte?
“It was thought best not to trouble the king unduly,” he explained as though she were a child. “He will be agitated enough with the move in general; giving him advance notice will only heighten that.”
Charlotte flicked her eyes to the man without emotion. “You seem to anticipate him fairly clearly for someone who cannot explain what is happening to him or how to mend it.”
The doctor paled further and glanced at Georgie, who did not heed it.
“There is no debate to be had,” Georgie told her. “The prime minister has just left, and he, the Lord Chancellor, and the cabinet have agreed to the move.”
Charlotte bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying out. It was a coup, then. With the government’s backing, there was nothing more to be done, short of a miraculous healing for George.
“Why should he go to Kew?” she made herself ask.
Georgie’s smile became condescending in the extreme.
“The extensive and enclosed gardens, for one. The king could take more exercise than is possible with the exposed terraces here. And greater privacy would also permit the adoption of more punitive measures, which is a sad necessity. The doctors have found that lenient measures increased the king’s malady, which they determined after employing the more coercive ones. ”
What had they been doing to George in the privacy of their care?
This would simply be trading one prison for another.
He had already been shut away for months, and now they wished to increase that seclusion?
To treat him even worse than what he had already endured?
Why, he had been placed in a straightjacket only last week to calm his agitation!
Would they bind him with cords or whip his back once they were at Kew?
Charlotte clenched her hands together as well as her teeth to keep herself restrained.
She wanted nothing more than to rage at her son, to lunge at these patronizing men who were content to let her husband endure torture under the guise of healing him, who had gone cap in hand to their son for guidance when he had done nothing to support his parents.
She wanted vengeance for her dear George, who was still locked inside himself at times and only breaking free at random moments.
But there would be no justice, no vengeance, no peace.
There would be nothing unless George recovered.
Her silence apparently encouraged her son. “We do recommend, Mother, that you and the princesses remain at Windsor. I am resolved upon it, and the ministers have consented.”
An unnerving chill coursed down Charlotte’s spine and reached to her toes, stiffening her knees and tightening her stomach. Her son’s aim was clear—the separation of his parents. He knew that Charlotte was George’s comfort, and he knew that Charlotte’s influence was only possible with George.
He sought to divide them and consolidate his own power. She had heard him griping about being forced to remain at Windsor and wishing to return to his frivolous life in town. That was all he cared about. Power and riotous living.
Well, let him try to run roughshod over her. He was not the regent yet.
And she was still Charlotte, Queen of England.
Gathering up the remnants of her dignity, Charlotte lifted her chin. “Do so at your peril. Where the king is, there shall I be.”