Farmer George. That was what people called him behind his back. Little did they know he took it as a compliment. He had meant what he’d said to his mother that morning. The earth was beautiful. Soil was a miracle, and from it sprang all life and hope.
“You did not answer me,” he said, taking her hand and raising it above their shoulders so that she might twirl. “How does it feel to be Queen?”
“It is an impossible question.”
“Is it? I should have not thought it so. It would be an extraordinary change for any woman, even one who has grown up a princess.”
“Perhaps.” The dance drew them apart for a few seconds, and when they were once again face-to-face, she said, “It is far less special to be a princess in Europe. We are rather thick on the ground, to be honest.”
He felt himself grin. “I cannot decide if the image is delightful or terrifying.”
“A swath of princesses?”
“An army,” he decided.
“That would be terrifying,” she said. “You have not seen my sister shoot a gun.”
George chuckled. “I do not know how many sisters you have,” he admitted.
“Only one who is still living.”
“I am sorry.”
She gave a little shrug. “The rest were all gone before I was born. I did not have the opportunity to know them.”
“As is so often the case.” George’s own parents had long been considered blessed that all of their children had survived infancy. His sister Elizabeth had passed two years earlier at the age of eighteen, and he had mourned her truly. But thus far, she was the only of his siblings to have died.
“You have a great many brothers and sisters,” Charlotte said.
“I do. I hope that you will come to view them as your own. Caroline Matilda—my youngest sister—would be quite interested in your army of princesses, I’m sure.”
“Is she a good shot?”
“God, I hope not. She’s but ten.”
Charlotte laughed. It was a rich sound, not particularly musical, but full of joy. “I must confess that I, too, am not handy with a weapon. Your sister and I shall learn together.”
“A frightening prospect,” George murmured. “And one I may have to take pains to prevent. But more importantly, what would we call this princess army?”
“This is where English fails us,” Charlotte said with a disdainful wrinkle of her nose. “In German we would have a word for it. Armeeprinzessinnen. We would all know exactly what it means.”
“I speak German as well,” George reminded her. “And I don’t believe a new word is required. Is there a reason we would not call it an Armee der Prinzessinnen?”
“Details,” Charlotte scoffed. “I prefer long words.”
“Backpfeifengesicht,” George murmured.
Charlotte’s face lit with a smile. “A face in need of a fist. Such a useful word. It is needed in English.”
“I daresay it is needed in every language,” George said. “But as it happens, you are the Queen. You can make up all the words you wish.”
She grinned. “Fistneedingface.”
“Faceneedingfist?” he countered.
“Yours is more accurate, but mine is more satisfying.”
George let out a burst of laughter, loud enough that it drew curious stares.
“Careful,” Charlotte said with a daring twinkle in her smile. “People will think we like each other.”
“Don’t we?” he murmured.
But she was saved from answering by the steps of the dance. They each made a stately circle before their hands once again touched, and she said, “I hope so.”
“It is a gamble we take,” he said, “these marriages of state.”
She acknowledged this with a tiny nod, then said, “You must know that I had no choice.”
“Untrue,” he murmured. He took her hand as they walked down an imaginary center aisle. The rest of the guests had not yet joined them, so it was just they two, processing alone. “I distinctly recall telling your brother that the choice was entirely up to you.”
“Surely you do not think I truly had a choice?”
George tried to ignore the little pricks of unease in his chest. “You gave every indication that you thought you did when you tried to go over the garden wall.”
“This I cannot deny.”
“And I did give you a choice. If you did not see it as such, that was entirely up to you.”
She considered that for a moment before speaking. “I very much appreciated that you offered. I was surprised that you did.”
“I am not such an ogre. Nor,” he added with a tip of his head, “a troll or a beast.”
The music swelled and then ebbed, indicating that the solo first dance had come to an end. George made a regal sweep with his arm, inviting his guests to join them. They did, swarming around the royal couple in a blur of perfumed satin and silk. And while he and Charlotte were still very much the center of attention, he felt not quite so much on display.
It was something of a relief, that.
“They told me almost nothing about you,” Charlotte said.
“They did not tell me much about you, either.”
“I am sure there is less to say.”
“Impossible. There could not be enough words to describe you.”
“Now I know you exaggerate.” But she blushed a little. It was not as easy to see on her skin as it must be on his, but he found this thrilling. As if she were a greater challenge.
She would not be easy to understand. She was a diamond. Flawless. But no one knew how a diamond came to be without imperfections. They just turned up that way, magic of the earth.
“Come,” he said, motioning to the side of the room. “Let us leave the dance floor to our guests.”
They returned to the side of the ballroom. Charlotte looked out over the crowd, and he looked at her. “You are beautiful,” he said. He had not meant to say it, not right at that moment, but it slipped from his lips like a poem.
She turned. “You are kind to say so.”
He tried his best to appear nonchalant. “It is nothing but the truth, but surely you must know that.”
“Is not beauty in the eye of the beholder?”
“If it is, then you are the most exquisite creature ever to be born, for I am the one beholding you.”
She smiled at that, a real smile. But it looked as if she were holding back something more. A laugh?
“What?” he asked.
“What what?”
“You were about to laugh.”
She drew back her chin. “I was not.”
“Allow me to correct myself. You were holding back a laugh.”
“Is that not the same thing?”
“Not at all. But you are avoiding my question.”
“Very well, if you must know—”
“I must,” he interrupted, and he grinned. He could not remember the last time he’d felt like this, like he needed to win and woo and most of all, he had to earn it.
“I was thinking,” she said, “that such opulent language is not like you.”
“You were, were you?”
She shifted her posture. A little wiggle of her shoulders. She looked rather pleased with herself. “I was.”
“And how would you know that, given that we’ve only just met?”
“I could not say, except that I think I know you.”
His heart leapt. Soared. And it would have been glorious except that the black hand of terror snaked out and squeezed in his chest. She did not know him. If she knew him, she’d not have married him.
George looked down at his hand. He could not see it twitching, but it felt like it was. Like it might.