Charlotte wandered over to the far wall, where he had pinned up several drawings. One was of a design for a new type of telescope. Another was a chart of constellations in the southern sky.
“Is this what you have been doing?” she asked suddenly.
George blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Since the wedding.” She motioned to the chart on the wall, and then to the telescope. “Is this how you have been spending your time since the wedding?”
He brightened. This was a question he could answer. “Well, yes. It is most exciting. There is an alignment—”
“In this room,” she said, and her voice seemed to develop an edge. “This whole time you have been in this room.”
“Observatory,” he corrected. “But yes. Would you like to look through the telescope? It’s a remarkably clear night, as I said, and I’m almost positive I have found Venus. I mean, I am positive I have found Venus, but I should verify against my charts. It is the way of science, you know. One must record, one must verify.”
She did not speak, and he felt compelled to fill the silence, so he motioned to the chart she’d been looking at. “Not that one. That one is for the southern hemisphere. Did you know the austral skies don’t look the same as ours? One sees entirely different constellations. I should like to go sometime, but I doubt I will have the opportunity. Too much to do here at home.”
He looked at her expectantly. He had not anticipated that she might be interested in astronomy.
But she was just shaking her head. “What have I done wrong?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What mistake did I make?”
“You have made no mistake.” It had not occurred to him that she might think their separation was her fault. But he did not know how to correct her misapprehension without revealing his own deficiencies.
“Did I say something to offend you?” she asked.
“No.” Of course she hadn’t. She was perfect. That was the problem.
“Did I do something to offend you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then what is it?” she cried. “What is so wrong with me?”
“There is nothing wrong with you,” he said simply.
She was his comet, his shooting star. She sparkled like the heavens, and when she smiled it felt like mathematical equations sliding into place. The world in balance, each side properly weighted.
She was everything that was beauty, and everything that was brilliant, and he was—
He was not well.
He was not well and he was not right, but worse, he could not predict when he would be not well and not right. If he had one of his spells in front of her, if she saw him at his worst . . .
He did not know how he could bear it.
But how did one explain such a thing? One could not, of course. So he repeated his words and hoped they would be enough. “There is nothing wrong with you, Charlotte.”
Her voice rose in volume. “There must be, or you would not have so easily cast me aside.”
He did not know how to speak to her. Would her heightened emotions trigger his own? He needed to remain calm. That was the most important thing he had learned from Doctor Monro. What was it he liked to say? George needed to learn to govern himself. How could he govern others if he could not govern himself?
He took a breath. Charlotte was unpredictable. Capricious. She had abandoned her honeymoon chambers at Buckingham House in violation of all custom and decorum, not to mention his direct order. She had burst in here, his observatory, his private sanctum, unannounced.
Who did that? What measure of woman was she?
“Why do you hate me?” she asked.
“I don’t hate—” He muttered a curse. He was losing control of the conversation. This was not acceptable. “Do not become unreasonable.”
“George, I thought you were visiting a brothel!”
He drew back, flabbergasted. “Do you even know what that word means?”
“I know what a brothel is,” she said testily. “Almost. I have brothers. But that does not signify. I am saying that I would almost rather you were visiting a brothel.”
“I don’t think you do,” he said.
“I could understand it more,” she said with a frustrated roll of her eyes. “But this— Do you truly prefer stars to my company?”
“I did not say that I prefer—”
“You have been in this room—”
“Observatory,” he said again. “The only one of its kind in all of England.” He smiled gamely. “I can show it to you, if you like. The telescope in particular is a masterpiece.”
She stared at him, and for the love of all that was holy, he could not begin to guess what she was thinking. “Let me make sure I understand,” she said. “You have been in this one-of-a-kind observatory room sleeping and eating and staring up at the sky and feeling most excited by the constellations since the night of our wedding while I have been stuck in that stuffy house being changed like a doll three times a day with nowhere to go, no one to talk to, and nothing to do.”
“You are the Queen,” he said plainly. “You can do whatever you like.”
“Except spend time with my husband.”
“Come now, Charlotte—”
“Stop patronizing me!”
“I do not understand what you complain about.”
“I am seven and ten years old, and suddenly I am Queen.”
He found himself backing up as she spoke. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to. It was just that he could feel his mind getting riled. Words shot through his brain like dice, and it took everything he had not to keep jerking his head to the side.
“I am in a strange country,” Charlotte said. “With strange food. And strange customs.”
“We can ask the chefs to prepare familiar dishes,” he suggested. “Schnitzel? Strudel? I am sure they can learn.”
“It is not about the food,” she burst out, even though she had, just a moment ago, said it was about the food. “You do not understand because this is who you were born to be. You say I can do whatever I like, but I cannot. The Queen is not allowed to go to the modiste or the galleries or the ice shops. I cannot make friends. I must hold myself apart. I do not know a single soul here. Except for you, and you will not be with me.”
He could not be with her. It was different.
“I am completely alone,” she said, her voice growing small. “And you prefer the sky to me.”
He did not speak. He just stared at her. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to feel at home. Could she not see that he was trying?
“Say something!” she begged.
He shook his head. “I do not want to fight with you.”
“I want to fight with you!” she cried. “Anything would be better than this—this neglect. This disregard. I cannot bear it.”
He held himself still. He was a statue. It was the only way.
“Fight with me,” she begged. “Please.”
He did not move. If he could just hold still, he might make it through this night without an episode. Or at the very least, he could stave it off until she departed.
Venus, Transit of Venus . . .
Not now. He could not lose control right now.
Venus, Venus, Mars, Jupiter . . .
“Fight for me, George,” she whispered.