Chapter 27
The reports from France are too horrible to contemplate.
The storming of the Bastille and massacre of those there.
Women marching on the palace and attempting assassination.
The family forced to abandon their homes and live in the most ramshackle residence that could ever claim to be royal.
I know you will claim it is still a mansion and far better than a prison, but you have seen the manner in which they lived.
Tell me you do not see the insult in this.
And worse, the soldiers are no longer loyal to them and are escorting them hither and thither .
. . Why can they not just leave them alone?
And, most maddening of all, why must I remain silent on the subject?
Charlotte
It was an honor for anyone to receive the queen and her daughters at one of their events, and the public knew it well. They also knew not to approach any one of them without meeting the specific guidelines drawn out for them, which the hosts would be strictly instructed on.
And, if the hosts were wise, they would ensure that the Prince of Wales and the queen would not be at the same event at the same time.
Doing otherwise would ensure they were dropped from the queen’s favor with all the swiftness of a blink and the permanence of death.
All that aside, Charlotte actually enjoyed being a guest at events.
She was an intimidating figure at any gathering, but when it was outside of a palace? She was the Great Untouchable.
It allowed her an excellent amount of time to be quiet and reserved without appearing to be so. There might be conversation and music in the space, but none of it was directed at her or for her, so it might as well have been a blessed silence.
The only thing better than being at someone else’s event right now would have been spending time at her newest residence, Frogmore, located on the grounds at Windsor—so not entirely the country, but close enough.
She would have been delighted to hide away there in the same way Antoinette did with her blessed Petit Trianon.
A retreat at her home.
A private space.
A chance to simply be Charlotte and no one else.
No one more.
A life of constant hurry and bustle wasn’t reasonable, in her mind. A country life was her preference, and the more she could have those moments, the more the stresses of her life faded into mere obstacles to be overcome.
She was desperate to turn the little house into her ideal, and if she was able to return to Windsor soon, she could engage in that activity. Heaven knew, it would be more rewarding than coping with the rumors of her son’s continued misdeeds and outlandish behavior and opinions.
Surely he was the offspring of someone else, and she and George had been tricked into considering him theirs. There was no other explanation for how wretched he had grown to be. She refused to believe that she had failed as a mother to such a humiliating degree.
Charlotte’s attention was drawn to a rise in sound to one side of the ballroom—whose she could not precisely recall because it was not relevant—and a small crowd gathering.
The guests were eagerly engaged with each other, rapt even, and yet the subject, be it corporeal or otherwise, was unclear.
But it was enough to draw attention, and to keep the guests from dancing.
She was not naturally curious in these settings but tonight was different.
She turned toward one of her ladies-in-waiting and crooked a finger. “Find out what they are discussing or whom.”
Her lady inclined her head obediently and moved in that direction, immediately joining in the conversation.
Charlotte rather enjoyed sending her ladies out and about as emissaries for her.
It was well known who they were and that they were affiliated with her, so people worked to impress them as much as they might have done had Charlotte gone herself.
Though without the stammering, excessive deference and tiresome flattery.
It was only a few minutes before her lady returned, stepping close.
“The Duc d’Orleans has come from Paris,” she whispered. “They are listening to tales of France and the royal family and asking questions. He seems very personable and engaging, rather as though he is holding court himself.”
Charlotte pursed her lips in disapproval, running the connections through her mind. The duc was a cousin of Louis XVI, but a distant one. Grandson of Louis XIII, if she was correct, and one of France’s blessed Princes of the Royal Blood.
An excess of royalty in her mind, but no one had asked her to judge the nobility of France.
“And did they say why he is in England when France is in such disarray?” Charlotte asked her lady with mild interest.
“Diplomatic interests. Though he is not here in an official capacity.”
Charlotte smirked, nodding in thought. “He has been sent away to keep him out of trouble.”
“It could be, Your Majesty. Would you like to speak with him?”
She shook her head slowly. “If he is the sort of creature that I believe him to be, he will seek me out. He may speak to me, if he requests it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The evening had become vastly more intriguing. She took great pleasure in dismantling social strategy, and an official dignitary of France coming to England right when his home nation was churning its way to some new future?
He had specific aims, and she was looking forward to determining them.
Less than an hour later, the host of the evening came to her, accompanied by a man of average height with an aristocratic profile and powdered wig in the French style. His eyes were fixed on her while his mouth curved in the slightest, most polite smile donning a human mask.
Scheming Frenchman.
“Your Majesty,” the host greeted with a bow. “May I have the pleasure of introducing Louis Philippe, Duc d’Orleans, recently arrived from France.”
The duc bowed politely, but she caught the flash of insolence in his eyes as he did so.
Lovely.
“Welcome to England, Duc,” Charlotte said in her best formal tone. “What brings you to our shores?”
The duc’s smile did not even twitch. “A diplomatic opportunity encouraged by the Marquis de Lafayette.”
If he was hoping for her to be impressed by the mention of one of the men who had a great impact on the outcome of the War with America, he was not going to do very well on this diplomatic opportunity at all.
“It is intriguing to me that you are able to leave France at such a tumultuous time,” Charlotte mused while keeping her eyes fixed on him. “One hears such unfortunate things.”
“Change is always uncomfortable for those who are unprepared for the efforts,” the duc replied calmly. “France has had quite enough of the king’s indifference and the queen’s frivolous spending.”
Ah, so he was not bothering to temper his opinions for politeness, was he? Perhaps he was looking for some revolutionary support from the British, given the historical animosity between the nations. He was drawing a line firmly against the royal family, of which he was a member.
Was he a revolutionary or an opportunist?
Charlotte forced her expression into polite consideration.
“I was unaware that the financial difficulties of your nation could be laid at the feet of your queen and nothing else. One might suspect that funding a large portion of America’s revolution against my husband’s authority could be to blame, as well as the excesses of the entire nobility—and the extended, distant members of the royal family who never seem to stop considering themselves as such.
” She tilted her head. “How fascinating to be falsely informed.”
A muscle twitched in the duc’s face, sending a thrill of victory into her chest.
Before he could reply, Charlotte spoke again. “Tell me how things go in Paris. I have heard of riots.”
“There have been some,” he admitted in a tight voice, “but nothing that cannot be properly managed. The National Assembly has established its own militia, the National Guard, and it is proving to be a superior force. The people are pleased with the prospect of having a voice.”
“The people?” Charlotte repeated. “The people who have been recipients of your charitable deeds? One has heard of the throwing of coins and selling items for poor relief.”
The duc appeared delighted by her knowledge. “Indeed, Your Majesty. I find myself very attached to the common man and his fight for rights. I march with the common man and woman and consider myself no better than any of them.”
Charlotte hummed softly. “What a novel idea. A common man among the nobility. I can see how it might be possible to feel a distance and separation from those who are not born into wealth, influence, and opportunity, let alone of a gender that is taken seriously only because of something that took place in the Garden of Eden, but you have the incomparable gift of putting all that to the side and claiming you belong among the masses. Is that right, Duc?”
She emphasized his title with a coldness she did not usually employ in public but could not hold back now.
His jaw tightened, and his smile faded.
“Might we then expect you to renounce your title of Prince of the Royal Blood, and give up your houses, your finery, your fortunes, your honors, in order to appease the masses?
That you will be able to march among them as an equal and fight for the rights of those who, up until recently, have never been worth your notice?
Your charity for popular opinion? Your aims to be a friend of the angry and ignored so your path to the throne might be made clear?
You think that having popular opinions and tossing a few coins will allow you to be spared the selfsame resentment they are pouring upon your cousin?
“I am no diplomatic conquest to be made, Duc. This is no official visit, and I do not receive you in any capacity. The horrors of France have no sympathy with me, and you would do well to avoid my presence while you remain in my husband’s realm.
And should you wish to spread the seeds of discord here, as I am sure you do in France, it will not be the fury of the French people that will be your end. ”
The duc’s eyes were wide, but not as wide as those of the host, who was gaping openly at her words, which had turned utterly frigid and sharp.
That temper of hers was certainly useful when employed properly, and when harnessed behind the weight of her title and position, it might as well have been thunderous.
No one would record this interaction between them, and no one would dare to believe that the Duc d’Orleans had made a favorable impression upon the queen of England.
After all, her cold expression had not changed.
There had been no smiles, no laughter, no invitations to St. James’s Palace, and she would be quick to dismiss him.
And Charlotte would have the pleasure of feeling as though she had defended her friend Antoinette without even mentioning her name or approaching anything political.
Instead, she was only expressing her feelings on the hypocrisy of the man standing before her, and the shame of him standing so openly against family.
Her own son might well be standing before her, in that regard, only without the same fear as this little man.
“You may go,” Charlotte suggested blandly, flicking her fingers.
The host immediately turned and gestured for the duc to do the same, and they left her presence without looking back.
Do not smile. Do not smile.
But, oh, she was smiling quite viciously on the inside.
Run, run, little frog. See how long the people adore you after you’ve left them behind.