The Queen said nothing.
Agatha waited.
Nothing.
Dear God.
“Your Majesty,” Agatha said, very, very carefully, “you did have a wedding night?”
It was as if a dam exploded. “He was mean,” the Queen cried out. “And rude. And selfish. He just wanted to leave. He felt bad, I suppose, and he did not seem to understand why I did not want him to live at Kew while I am stuck here with no one to talk to and then he gives me that beast as if that is to make everything better but that does not make up for—”
“Your Majesty,” Agatha interrupted.
Queen Charlotte stopped talking and gave a little nod. Dear God, she looked young.
“I am still allowed to speak freely?” Agatha said.
The Queen nodded again.
“I am talking about consummating the marriage. You and the King did consummate the marriage, did you not?”
But the Queen just sat there with an utterly blank expression on her face.
“Your Majesty,” Agatha said with rising alarm. “Charlotte. If you did not consummate the marriage, you are not actually married to the King. Your whole position is in danger. The Great Experiment is in danger. My God, you did consummate?”
The Queen did not speak.
“You do know what I mean when I say consummate?” Agatha asked, dreading the answer.
The Queen’s face took on a vaguely helpful expression. “Does it have something to do with this great experiment?”
Oh, Lord. Heaven help them both.
Agatha squared her shoulders. She was about to cement her place in history, not that anyone would ever know it. “Let us send for Brimsley,” she said with grim determination. “We will require supplies.”
The Queen gave her one nod, then turned toward the door. “Brimsley!”
He came rushing in.
The Queen motioned to Agatha. “Whatever she needs.”
“Drawing paper,” Agatha said. “And charcoals. Or pencils. Either will do.”
If he was puzzled by the request, his face did not betray it. He had the supplies in hand in under ten minutes.
“I’m not a very proficient artist,” Agatha said, starting to sketch.
“Nonsense. I am sure you are excellent. Although . . .” Charlotte leaned forward. “What is that?”
Agatha wondered, and not for the first time, if she were in a waking nightmare. “That,” she said, “is a man’s member.”
“His what?”
“His—”
“Ma’am,” Brimsley choked out.
Agatha snapped around to face him. “Would you have her continue in ignorance?”
“Yes, Brimsley,” Charlotte prodded, “would you have me continue in ignorance?”
Brimsley swallowed visibly. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”
“Is that really the shape of it?” Charlotte asked, tracing the drawing. She looked at her fingers, gray with charcoal dust, and then rubbed them together to clean off the worst of it. “It does not seem practical.”
“Well, it does change,” Agatha said.
“Truly?” The Queen turned to Brimsley. “You have one of these, do you not?”
Brimsley’s cheeks burned pink. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And does it change when—” She looked to Agatha.
“When the man desires his wife,” Agatha confirmed.
“Then,” the Queen said to Brimsley. “Does it change then?”
Brimsley shot a desperate look at Agatha. “This is really not the type of conversation—”
“I’m well aware,” Agatha bit off.
“Brimsley doesn’t have a wife,” the Queen pointed out.
“Well, yes,” Agatha said. “It doesn’t have to be a wife, strictly speaking. Any female could do, I suppose.”
Brimsley swallowed.
The Queen looked back down at the drawing. “What does he do with it?”
Agatha looked over at Brimsley. He was visibly sweating, and his eyes were fixed firmly on the ceiling.
“He puts it inside you,” Agatha said.
The Queen drew back, her chin practically disappearing into her neck. “You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid not.”
The Queen turned to Brimsley for confirmation. “Brimsley . . .”
“Please, Your Majesty,” he pleaded. “I beg of you.”
She turned back to Agatha. “We are making him uncomfortable.”
“Quite,” Brimsley choked.
“He puts it inside you,” Agatha said again. “Between your legs. I don’t—” She looked down at the paper and let out a tiny groan. “I don’t think I can draw it.”
The Queen looked at Brimsley. “Can you—”
“No!” His face was now a tomato.
The Queen turned back to Agatha. “And how many times does he insert it?”
“As many times as necessary, Your Majesty.”
“How long does it take?”
Agatha could not lie. “Sometimes it feels like it takes forever.”
The Queen nodded slowly, absorbing this information. “Will I enjoy it?”
“I never have. But I do not believe I have ever thought of it as something to enjoy. More of a chore, really. Perhaps it is different if one does it with someone one likes.” Agatha gave a shrug. “I do not know.”
And she likely never would.
“Well, I do not like George,” the Queen said plainly. “So I do not see why we should need to bother ourselves to do this at all.”
“No!” Agatha burst out before she could temper her reaction. “You must. Your Majesty, this is Britain. It was not that long ago that Queens were beheaded for not bearing children.”
“And this is the only way to fall pregnant? You are sure?”
“Quite sure.”
The Queen frowned. “Surely there is no rush.”
Agatha grasped the Queen’s hand, well aware that this was strictly against protocol. “Your Majesty,” she said with considerable urgency, “the marital act must be performed or you are not Queen.”
“But we are married.”
“Not fully.”
The Queen muttered something—Agatha thought it was We have seeds in German, but sure that couldn’t be right. “Ma’am?” she asked hesitantly.
“I said I need my German,” the Queen said in a most frustrated tone. “I need my long words. This halfway marriage. It is ludicrous. We would have a word for it in German, and then I would know about it.”
“Of course,” Agatha murmured, not entirely certain what she was talking about.
The Queen’s eyes flashed. “I am not stupid. I am not.”
“No,” Agatha agreed, startled by the sudden change of subject. But she was not merely paying lip service. Charlotte was not stupid. On the contrary, Agatha suspected she was one of the most intelligent people she would ever meet. But she had been thrust into an impossible situation.
Except it wasn’t impossible, was it? Because this was Charlotte’s life.
She was lonely. The Queen was desperately lonely, and Agatha had no idea what to do about it.
“I am not stupid,” Charlotte said again. “But every day they make me feel so. They dress me up and tell me where to go and who to see and who not to see, and what I might—” She looked up quite suddenly. “I cannot even eat fish!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The King hates fish, so I may not eat it even though we do not live in the same house. I love fish. Did you know that?”
“I did not.”
“Herring. I grew up near the Baltic Sea, and we eat herring. It is a Danish thing.”
“Danish,” Agatha repeated weakly.
“We are very near to Denmark. But does anyone know that? No, they do not, because they do not care about me.”