“You know I’m not actually going to get a megrim,” his mother said crossly. “But honestly, George, could you just allow me to finish?”
He motioned with his hand. It was a regal thing, that. He’d learned it at a young age, and it came in handy.
“We are not prepared for her to be so brown,” his mother said.
“Indeed,” Lord Bute said, adding absolutely nothing to the conversation.
“And it doesn’t come off.”
At that, George’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“It doesn’t come off,” his mother repeated. “I rubbed her cheek to be sure.”
“Good God, Mother,” George said, nearly rising from his chair. Reynolds jumped back, just fast enough to keep from slicing George’s throat with the razor.
“Please tell me you did not try to rub the skin off my intended bride,” George said.
She bristled. “I meant no insult.”
“Nevertheless, you—” He stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. Don’t yell don’t yell don’t yell. It was important that he remain calm. He was at his best when he was calm. It was when he lost that calm that his mind started to race, and what he needed right now—what he needed always—was no mind-racing.
Calm. Calm.
He took a breath. “You are not an unintelligent woman, Mother. Surely you realize the rudeness of such a gesture.”
Princess Augusta’s posture, which had already been ramrod, grew even more impossibly stiff. “I am mother to the King. You are the only person above me. Thus, I am incapable of being rude to any but you.”
“Your argument does not hold,” George told her. “Have you forgotten that by nightfall she will be Queen? And thus most certainly above you.”
“Pah. In rank, perhaps.”
“Wasn’t that precisely your point?”
But his mother had never been a friend of logic when it counteracted her arguments. “She is a child,” she said.
“She is seventeen. Might I remind you that you wed my dear father at sixteen?”
“Which is why I know precisely what I am talking about. I hadn’t a whit of maturity at my marriage.”
That gave George pause. It was very unlike his mother to speak of herself in such a manner.
“She will need guidance,” his mother continued. “Which I shall provide.”
“She shall be most grateful for it,” Lord Bute said.
Again, always so helpful. George ignored him, turning once again to his mother. “I am sure she will be delighted to receive your aid and succor now that you have treated her like some theatrical freak.”
Augusta gave a little sniff. “You are always so quick to extol the virtue of science and inquiry. Surely you would not begrudge me my curiosity. I have never met someone of her color. I do not know how it works. For all I know, a double tincture of applied arsenic would bring her right down to my complexion.”
George closed his eyes. Dear God.
“I knew she was a little dark,” Augusta said.
“Indeed,” Lord Bute murmured.
Augusta turned to him. “Why did Harcourt not explain her color? He saw her when he signed the papers, did he not?”
“He mentioned some Moor blood,” Bute allowed.
“Some,” Augusta emphasized. “That could mean anything. I thought she’d be the color of milky coffee.”
“Some might say she is.”
“Not the way I take my coffee.”
“Well, we all do pour our milk diff—”
“Cease!” George roared.
They did. Perk of being King.
“You will not speak of my bride like a bloody cup of coffee,” George bit off.
His mother’s eyes widened at his coarse language, but she held her tongue.
“Your Majesty,” Bute said.
George silenced him with a flick of his hand. “Mother,” he said, waiting until her eyes were fixed on his before finishing his question. “Do you or do you not approve of this marriage?”
Her lips pinched. “It does not matter if I approve of it.”
“Cease your dissembling. Do you approve?”
“I do,” his mother said. Quite firmly, in fact. “I believe she will be good for you. Or at the very least, not bad.”
“Not bad?” George echoed.
“For you. Not bad for you.” And then, as if they didn’t all know what she meant, she added, “I don’t believe she will exacerbate your . . . condition.”
There it was. That thing they never talked about. Except when it was happening and they had no choice.
The last time had been particularly awful. George did not remember all the details; he never did, he just woke up later feeling exhausted and confused. But he recalled that they had been discussing her, his soon-to-be bride. She was on her way already, on a ship from Cuxhaven, but a voice in his head had warned him that this was not the right time for a journey. It was not a safe time for a journey.
She would lose the moon.
What the hell did that mean? Even he did not know, and the words had sprung from his lips.
He was not certain what had happened after that. As usual, giant chunks of his memory were gone. George always visualized the phenomenon like an atmospheric mist, seeping from his mouth as he slept, growing softer and thinner until it drifted away on the wind.
Memory as mist. It would have been poetic if it weren’t his memory.
The next thing George remembered was waking up at the Royal College of Physicians. It was rather like he’d been shaken from a nap. His mother was there, along with a small handful of doctors.
One of them had actually been helpful.
Pleasant change, that.
“May I continue, Your Majesty?”
George looked at Reynolds, who had been standing quietly through the entire exchange, straight razor in hand. George held up a finger, signaling that he needed a moment more, and turned back to his mother. “You tell me that you support this marriage, and yet you appear apprehensive. I would have you explain.”
Augusta took a moment before speaking. “We will need to make adjustments,” she said. “Quickly.”
“People will talk,” Lord Bute said.
“People will talk,” she agreed. “It is a problem. We do not want them to think we did not know.”
“That her skin is brown?” George asked.
“Precisely. They must think we wanted it this way. Perhaps we are trying to make a statement. We wish to unite society.”
“We have already made the trade deals,” Lord Bute said. “But they could be canceled . . .”
“We cannot cancel the royal wedding on the day,” Augusta said sharply.
“God no,” George murmured. He could not even begin to imagine the nature of the rumors that would follow.
“The ton might not accept her,” Bute said. “It’s a problem.”
Augusta was having none of that. “We are the Palace. A problem is only a problem if the Palace says it is a problem. That is a fact, is it not?”
Bute cleared his throat. “It is.”
“And the King is the sovereign head of the Church of England and ruler of this great land. Therefore, nothing he does would ever be a problem for the Palace. Would it, Lord Bute?”
“It would not.”
“So. This must be as the Palace wished it to be. Must it not, Lord Bute?”
“Yes. It must.”
“Good.” Augusta’s voice was brisk, businesslike. “Then the King’s choice has been most intentional. To make that clear, we shall expand the guest list for the wedding. And add to the new queen’s court.”
Bute’s eyes widened. “Are you saying . . .”