“The King has always been regarded as pleasing to the eye,” Agatha said carefully.
“Yes.”
Agatha took another sip of her tea.
“More?” the Queen asked.
Agatha nodded gratefully.
The Queen raised a hand, and three servants hurried forward. One refilled Agatha’s tea, another splashed a bit of milk in the cup, and the third dropped in a cube of sugar.
“The Dance of the Tea Maids,” Agatha said under her breath.
“What did you say?”
Blast. She had not meant that to be audible. “I was admiring the precision of your servants,” Agatha said. “They moved as if in a beautifully choreographed dance.”
The Queen considered this, and then nodded. Smiled even. “It was, wasn’t it? But that was not what you said.”
“I called it ‘The Dance of the Tea Maids,’” Agatha admitted.
The Queen’s smile grew. Not much. Not even enough to show her teeth. But Agatha got the sense that she might actually be starting to feel at ease.
The poor woman. Poor girl, really. She was only, what, seventeen? Agatha had been of a similar age when she had been married to Danbury, but at least she hadn’t had to move to another country.
Those early days of marriage had been awful. It was still awful most of the time, but at least she understood what she was doing. She was in her own culture and, until she had been unexpectedly elevated to this position of lady-in-waiting, she had known how to navigate her society.
Queen Charlotte was adrift.
Agatha took a sip of tea. It would have been a crime not to, after the servants had prepared it with such flair. But she and the Queen had fallen into another awkward silence.
“Do you like music?” the Queen asked abruptly.
“I do. I would not say I am knowledgeable on the subject, but I enjoy listening.”
“I am a great afficionado.”
“How fortunate for us. Will you be hosting concerts?”
The Queen glanced at Brimsley, who gave a tiny nod. “Soon,” she said. “Once my honeymoon is over.”
“Ah.” And that was the end of that conversation. Agatha was saved from trying to come up with another appropriate topic by the entrance of a footman. He shared a few quiet words with Brimsley, who Agatha was coming to realize was the Queen’s most trusted advisor.
As much as anyone could be trusted on less than two weeks’ acquaintance.
Brimsley stepped forward. “The King has sent you a gift, Your Majesty. It is waiting in the foyer. And there is a note, ma’am.” He handed it to the Queen.
“A note?” The Queen’s face positively lit with excitement. It was almost painful to watch. Agatha waited patiently as she ripped open the seal.
“Oh, this is lovely,” the Queen said. “Is this not lovely?” She held the note forward, and it took Agatha a moment to realize she was meant to take it.
The private correspondence between King and Queen, and she, Agatha Danbury, was meant to read it?
If she had been Catholic, she would have crossed herself. Honestly.
“Read it aloud,” Queen Charlotte commanded.
“I never want you to feel alone,” Agatha read. She cleared her throat. “George R.”
“His signature.”
“Yes, of course.” Agatha looked down at the elegant handwriting one more time before setting the card on the table. “I don’t believe I have ever seen a monarch’s signature.”
Queen Charlotte considered this for a moment. “I suppose neither have I. No, wait, we signed the register in the chapel, did we not?”
Agatha nodded. “It is customary, ma’am.”
The Queen turned to Brimsley. “Show me the gift.”
Brimsley made a sound of mild discomfort. “Ehrm, this might not be the best time.”
“Nonsense. I will see it now.”
Agatha tried to hide her apprehension. She suspected Brimsley had a far better understanding than the Queen of how the palace worked, and if he did not think this was the correct moment for the King’s gift, he likely had a very good reason.
But one did not disobey a direct order from royalty, so a moment later, a wicker basket was brought forth.
“What is that?” Queen Charlotte asked.
Agatha leaned forward. All she could see was a giant puff ball of caramel-colored fur.
“That is the gift from the King, Your Majesty,” Brimsley said.
“But what is it?”
“I think it is a dog, Your Majesty.”
The Queen looked at the puff ball, then at Agatha, and then at Brimsley. “No,” she said firmly. “Dogs are big and majestic. A pinscher, a shepherd, a schnauzer. That is a deformed bunny.”
Agatha snorted a laugh.
“Then you agree,” the Queen said, turning sharply to face her.
“Er, well . . . I have never been fond of dogs,” Agatha admitted. “Of any sort.”
“Are you fond of deformed bunnies?”
“Certainly not.”
The Queen regarded the dog for a moment. “Does it have a name?”
“Pom Pom, Your Majesty,” Brimsley said.
“Pom Pom?” She muttered something under her breath in German.
“The King’s man told me the King named it himself,” Brimsley said.
“The King’s man? The one I met at Kew?”
“Reynolds,” Brimsley confirmed.
“He knows the King well, this Reynolds?”
“Quite.”
The Queen considered this. “And Reynolds said the King wanted me to have it?”
“Very much, ma’am. He said the King is most concerned with your happiness.”
The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to know this Reynolds quite well.”
Brimsley coughed and blushed. Agatha’s brows rose. Now this was interesting.
“Reynolds and I have both worked for the royal family for a number of years,” Brimsley finally answered.
But the Queen was no longer paying him any attention. “I suppose it is a thoughtful gift,” she said, poking one finger into the fur. She looked back at Agatha, a determinedly happy expression on her face. “My husband is the best of husbands.”
Agatha did not say, “Yes, you’d mentioned.” She did, however, nod.
“It is our honeymoon,” the Queen said. She swallowed, and the movement looked almost painful on her delicate, jewel-laden throat.
Agatha could stand it no longer. Carefully, she set down her tea. When she spoke, it was in a lower voice. “May I speak freely, Your Majesty?”
The Queen turned to Brimsley, who managed to clear the room with a curt nod. He took the basket with Pom Pom and walked to the door. “I shall be no more than five paces away,” he assured the Queen.
The Queen waited until he was gone and then turned to Agatha with something akin to relief in her eyes. Or maybe it was desperation. “Please speak freely,” she said. “No one else does.”
Agatha took a metaphorical breath for courage and then dove in. “First, you are a terrible liar. I did not believe a word you said about your honeymoon. Do not try that in front of society. It will cause scandal.”
The Queen’s eyes went wide. “Oh. I did not realize I—”
“My honeymoon was a disaster,” Agatha said frankly. “On my wedding night, I did not know what to expect, and my husband was old and impatient. He still is old and impatient.”
“I am sorry.”
Agatha shrugged. She had long since accepted her lot in life. Luxury and wealth, with not a whit of true comfort. “The whole event was painful and quite terrifying. I am here to tell you that it is normal if your wedding night was not perfect or splendid.”