Chapter 36
How can life roll forward as though there is no gaping void among the good and great of this world?
How are others shrugging at the unfortunate events as though they were not blatant atrocities that deserve to be avenged?
How are you and I trapped within the bounds of policies and appearances rather than being free in the integrity of friendship to act with the desires of our grieving hearts?
Everything I can do seems to be small and pointless.
I have canceled events, grand celebrations and the like, for there is nothing I wish for less than to be merry, even in an act.
There is no merriment or solace. No respite from my despair.
I spend time in my little gardens at Frogmore, slowly and carefully tending and seeking even the smallest glimpse of pleasure in my favorite of all quiet places, and still there is nothing. Without her, nothing.
Charlotte
Silence was her companion now. Silence asked no questions, offered no weak consolation, did not try to distract her. Silence wrapped her in its embrace and held her close.
The mourning period was over, and the world was moving on.
But Charlotte could not move on. Not yet.
Antoinette was gone. Executed like a criminal. Given no time for an appeal from any quarter.
Again they had shrouded London in mourning, rung the bells, allowed word of the horrors to spread. They’d canceled the celebration for the anniversary of George’s coronation as well as the first ball at Frogmore. Everything that would have been in poor taste.
But was it enough?
Even in England, Marie Antoinette had been rumored to be flighty and frivolous, despite a concurrent admiration for her, but the outcry and horror over the actions of the barbarians in France had not been as great as it had been with Louis’s death.
England did not care as much about the queen of France.
No one saw the woman that Charlotte had been writing to for several years.
The woman who had lost children and known the loneliness of being the wife of a monarch.
The woman who had never grasped the hopes and dreams of her life because of the arrangements others made for her.
The woman who could have been so much more but for the limitations placed upon her.
Now she was gone. Her children had been separated from her and likely had not known of her death. The world had lost a glorious light, and somehow it still turned.
As Charlotte understood it, rescue attempts had been in the works up until four days before Antoinette’s death.
Suspecting the outcome of her trial, a plan had been in place to spirit her away from the tumbrel that had carried her to the scaffold.
But Revolutionary France had spies everywhere, and nothing ever came of it.
Nothing ever came of any of it.
George had been sympathetic to Charlotte’s grief, but he could not quite comprehend the depth of it.
She could not explain it further than she had before.
Not to him.
Because she saw herself in Marie Antoinette of Austria and France in so many ways.
If the people of England ever grew as uneasy and unsettled as the people of France, she and George would have been the ones targeted and humiliated by their former subjects.
She would have been stripped of the only life she had known and mocked for the same interests as anyone else in her station.
She could not imagine being labeled the villain of an entire nation. The symbol of rot in the aristocracy. The embodiment of sin.
How had Antoinette survived as long as she had?
Not physically, as that was beyond her control in the chaotic world of France, but with her heart and her spirit and her goodness.
How had she not hated France long before her imprisonment and left it to her husband in order to preserve her sanity or reputation?
How had she endured living in a world that had been so cruel to her?
Being dropped from the highest tier of life to the very lowest would have been brutal for anyone, but for someone who had wished to be of service, wished to make a difference, and was trying to make an enjoyable, comfortable life for herself?
It had to be absolute hell.
Knowing how all of this had resolved for her friend, Charlotte had found a new depth to her anxieties.
One never imagined the downfall of a strong monarchy, but they had witnessed every aspect of it, including the horrific tragedy of its end.
If France could tumble in such a way, what would stop any other nation?
If George was not permanently recovered from his illness, or if he should perish from it, or if they had to discuss a regency once more, Charlotte would be pushed to the side and her son who despised her could do with her what he would.
If there were enough radicals in England to convert the masses . . .
No, the established format of government here gave the people enough of a voice—or the illusion of it—to keep the royal family from being overly dominant of their subjects.
What was more worrying was that Charlotte could not seem to get the vision of Antoinette out of her mind. How her trial must have gone. How the journey to the scaffold must have been. How terrified she must have been as she ascended to the guillotine.
She had been alone in her final moments with no one to comfort her or talk to her, no one to whom she could give her final wishes.
Now the world was robbed of her cleverness, her beauty, her wisdom, her composure, her greatness of mind. How she had blazed forth in brilliant splendor from the very moment she had come to France! And they had dimmed her light so completely that it had gone out, now only lit in memory.
Only time could weaken the acuteness of this pain Charlotte felt over her suffering and her death. That any of Antoinette’s friends and loved ones felt.
And now . . .
Now she held the final letter from Antoinette in her hands. A letter she had not anticipated receiving, could not say how it ever got out of France, was not certain she even wanted to read.
But the way her breath caught on a sob when she saw her friend’s handwriting though she knew she was dead . . .
The pain was exquisite. The tenderness was agonizing. Her tears burned with the fury of a thousand fires.
She ran her fingers over the dried ink addressing the letter, hoping that somehow, she might find some essence of Antoinette there. Something that might etch itself on her heart so she might never lose what she once had.
She would never be able to hear Mozart without thinking of Antoinette; would she ever again hear it without shedding tears for her?
When did Antoinette write this? What would it say to her? How would she endure its reading? It was addressed to both her and Abigail Adams, which made this moment even more poignant.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Charlotte broke the seal and opened the stiff pages, blinking rapidly to clear her eyes of her gathering tears.
16 October 1793
Her throat clenched, halting her breath. She had written this the very day of her death? Oh, Antoinette . . .
It would seem, my friends, that I am writing for the last time.
I have just been condemned, and I follow my husband to the scaffold.
You both know of my innocence, just as he was.
I am calm as one is when one’s conscience is clear.
I deeply regret abandoning my sweet children; you know that I existed only for them.
It is my greatest wish that they will escape my fate and perhaps come to know you both as I have.
Should that blessed occasion arise, ensure they recollect their father’s last words, that I expressly repeat to them that they never seek to avenge our death!
They should be friends and confidantes, devote their souls to God, and lead lives of conviction, hope, and integrity.
Charlotte set the letter in her lap for a moment, tears flowing as she thought of the sweet motherless children now in the hands of those who had murdered both of their parents. What were they enduring in their clutches? What would their lingering memories of their parents even be?
Oh, those poor orphaned darlings! Was there no hope to free them?
Charlotte would never quite forgive herself for failing to get Antoinette out when there may still have been a chance. Yes, it would have been difficult, logistically and politically, but considering what had happened, would the effort not have been worth it?
Returning her attention to the letter, Charlotte swallowed.
I have never been more grateful to have you both as my friends. I must share with you how much, in my misfortunes, our friendship has given me consolation. I grieve that we shared so few times together in happiness.
Charlotte, my first English friend upon my marriage, your heart knows mine.
Your mentorship settled my flighty heart and tender soul.
You brought me to the reminder that, while I was queen of France, I was also Antoinette the woman.
The wife. And eventually, the mother. The girl who adored music and literature and is almost certainly the favorite of Mozart.
The girl whom you encouraged to embrace her husband’s home when she was missing her own.
You taught me how to be a queen while continuing to be true to myself.
I adore you, I pray for you, I shall be with you.
A rough, deep sob fought its way out of Charlotte, and she dropped her head, clenching her eyes shut and covering her mouth with a hand.
It was too much—too sweet, too painful, too raw a wound.
The humor in claiming to be Mozart’s favorite, the tender admission of Charlotte’s influence on her, the reminder of where they had started and how far they had come.
The words were so entirely Antoinette that Charlotte could almost hear her voice.
The morning of her death, and this was what had occupied her thoughts?
She had thought of them in those few hours remaining in her life?
What a loyal, caring heart her friend had possessed!
What a loss to Charlotte’s life. How many years of continued friendship and encouragement could have been theirs?
Wiping her eyes, Charlotte forced herself to return to the letter, skipping over the parts meant for Abigail, feeling that their friend ought to have that bit of privacy for herself.
I know not how much time I have, but here I shall confess to you, my trusted friends, my sisters. I ask God’s pardon for all the faults that I have been able to commit since I have existed; I hope that, in His goodness, He will be willing to receive my soul in His mercy and goodness.
I ask pardon of all those I know for all the pain that, without wanting to, I could have caused them. I forgive all my enemies the evil that they have done me.
“Oh, mon amie,” Charlotte whispered with a slight shake of her head. “You caused no pain to anyone worth your heart and your time. How I shall miss you!”
The rest of the letter was a bit of a blur to her, but she did know one thing: She would copy it word for word onto a separate piece of paper and keep the copy for herself, sending this original version to Abigail.
Charlotte had years and years of letters from Antoinette to soothe her heart and eyes, to treasure the delicate handwriting belonging to her friend.
Abigail would not have nearly as many, and she deserved this final account.
She moved to the desk in her salon and began copying the letter at once.
She would add her own note to Abigail and encase the letter from Antoinette within it so it might be better protected, and she would finally set aside any and all residual animosity against Abigail Adams that might still reside within her.
Life was entirely too unpredictable, and possibly too short, for such petty divisions.
She was determined to appreciate the good things in her life while she had them, to see the truth of people and situations without the prejudices of others, and to value this connection that Marie Antoinette herself had forged.
She could do no less if she wished to honor her.
Once the copy was done, and her own note written, Charlotte set the paper aside and moved to the window, dabbing at her eyes.
“Your Majesty?” a timid voice asked from the door.
Charlotte turned without schooling her features, for once not caring that someone might witness her vulnerability. “Yes?”
One of the maids stepped into the room, her smile kind but uncertain.
“I was asked to inform you that . . . Well, the king has not been sleeping well or much these past few weeks, and he has seemed to be quite hurried in the mind. It is asked if you would consider joining him for supper at Windsor this evening.”
The poor girl could have no idea what dreadful news she was bearing with these words. It might only have been an expression of the king’s desire to be reunited with Charlotte while she took this time away for her grief, but Charlotte knew better.
Everyone truly close to the king knew better.
His old disorder had started this way.
Which meant this could signal its return.
With a sigh, Charlotte slipped her dreaded mask of indifference back into place and straightened her shoulders like a queen. “Yes, you may send word to the palace. I shall dine with the king.”