Never his.
She touched the spines of his books. Had he ever read them? She could not remember seeing him read.
The newspaper. He’d read the newspaper.
The butler ironed the newspaper then gave it to Lord Danbury. Agatha read it when he was through. After that, it went into the fire.
Was there metaphor in that? There must be, but Agatha couldn’t find it. Not right then, at least.
“Lady Danbury?”
Agatha looked to the doorway. Coral was there.
“My lady, what are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” Agatha said.
Everything.
“Can I do anything for you?” Coral asked.
“No,” Agatha said. Then, “Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Nanny said the children went right to sleep.”
“Dominic had a few questions, but that is to be expected. He is the oldest.” Coral regarded Agatha with a kind expression. “Are you cold? Or hungry?”
Agatha shook her head. “They did not seem to feel much upset at the death of their father. Which I suppose is not a surprise. Lord Danbury was a stranger to them. They saw him only a few times a month.”
Coral seemed not to know what to say to this. “I can wake Charlie and have him light a fire. Or Cook can prepare a cold plate. Or early breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“It is almost four o’clock in the morning, my lady.”
Agatha’s lips parted with surprise. “I did not realize. I am sorry. Coral, please go back to bed.”
“I shall not leave you. It is not surprising that you should mourn him. He was your husband, even if—”
Agatha’s brows rose.
“Perhaps some tea,” Coral said. “Instead of . . . what are you drinking?”
Agatha looked down at the glass in her hand. “Port wine. It is awful. But it is Lord Danbury’s favorite. Was. Was his favorite.”
She set it down. She did not want to drink it.
Her hand was shaking. Why was her hand shaking? She was not upset. She would not miss him. Why was her hand shaking?
“My lady?” Coral sounded concerned.
Agatha slid the glass a little farther away from her. “I was three when my parents promised me to him. Did you know that?”
Coral nodded.
“Three years old. I do not think I fully understood how very small that is until last year, when Dominic turned three. Promised to a man at that age. What were they thinking?”
Coral remained silent.
“I was raised to be his wife,” Agatha said, staring at the wall. “I was taught that my favorite color was gold because his favorite color was gold. I was told my favorite foods were his favorite foods. I read only the books he liked. I learned his favorite songs on the pianoforte. I am drinking this port wine because it is his favorite and therefore it must be mine.”
She looked at Coral. “I do not like port wine.”
“No, my lady.”
“As many times as I dreamed and imagined and hoped and planned, I never thought what it would actually feel like to have him be gone. Wiped from this earth. I was raised for him. And now I am . . . new.”
Agatha looked at the wine.
“I am brand-new,” she said. “And I do not even know how to breathe air he does not exhale.”
She turned, faced the door. “I think I will go to bed now.”
“Of course, my lady.” Coral stepped aside to allow her to pass, but Agatha wasn’t quite ready to move.
“This world keeps changing,” she said.
“That it does, my lady.”
Agatha nodded and finally left. It was time to find her place in this new world.
But first, sleep.
George
Buckingham House
The King’s Bedchamber
That same night
George would never be sure why he awakened in the middle of the night. A sound from outside the house, perhaps? The wind? A bird? Or maybe no reason at all.
Who knew why a man’s eyelids fluttered open while the moon still shone? All he knew was once he was awake, he was awake.
He was, he realized, too happy to sleep.
He was also hungry. He wanted . . . What did he want? Anything but gruel. He would never eat that miserable slop again. Tomorrow—or was it today already?—he would inform Doctor Monro that they were through. He’d thought the doctor’s unconventional treatments had been working, but now he could see that it had been Charlotte all along.
She was the key to his health. She fed his happiness.
She would be the making of him.
Just look at what they had accomplished that evening at the Danbury Ball. Society was transformed. And it had been so easy. George had spent so much time bemoaning what it meant to be King that he’d forgotten what it meant to everyone else.
It was an accident of birth. He’d said as much to Charlotte, and he’d meant it. But he could do good with that accident. With his new wife at his side, to guide him, to help him . . .
There was nothing he could not do.
But first he needed a snack.
Careful not to wake Charlotte, he slipped from the bed, donned his dressing gown, and exited the room. He wasn’t sure of the time. Two? Three in the morning? Buckingham was asleep, and he saw no reason to wake anyone in his quest for a bite to eat.
How difficult could it be to find a piece of bread and cheese?
He knew where the kitchens were; he passed them each day on his way to Doctor Monro’s laboratory. Would he have known where to go at St. James’s? Now there was an interesting question. He didn’t think he’d ever been to the kitchens there.
No matter. Buckingham was his home now. With Charlotte. This was what mattered.
It was colder in the cellar, and he was regretting not having donned his slippers as he neared the kitchen. Why did feet get colder than the rest of one’s body? It must be the distance from the heart. One’s blood wasn’t as warm when it reached the toes.
He paused for a moment to rub one foot against the other, then stepped through the doorway, and—
He was not alone.
“Monro,” he said, stopping short just a step into the room. “What are you doing here?”
Monro looked up from a pot he was stirring on the stove. “Can’t sleep, Your Majesty?”
“No, just—”
“Your insomnia does not surprise me,” Monro cut in. “This is not the correct environment for you. We were making much more progress at Kew.”
“I am not returning to Kew.”
Monro’s mouth puckered with irritation. “I worry about the effects of this whole place. Since you moved to Buckingham, you have not been to the chair once. If we do not resume treatment soon, we risk losing everything we have accomplished.”
“We?” George almost laughed. “You and I, doctor, have accomplished nothing. Anything accomplished for me has been the work of my bride. Her methods have done more for me than you and your chair ever could.”
“Methods,” Monro scoffed. “Bah. She has no education. No learning. If Your Majesty thinks she helps you—”
“I know she does,” George interrupted. But there was no way Monro would ever understand the redemptive power of joy. That evening—at the Danbury Ball—it had done more for George’s soul than any ice bath or birch rod ever could.
“Your Majesty forgets himself,” Monro said testily. “You grow reckless. You give free rein to your most capricious urges.”
George crossed his arms. “So does she.”
“My point exactly,” Monro muttered.
George walked slowly across the kitchen, trailing his fingers along a wooden counter. “When I was an infant,” he mused, “my colic was never just colic. My colic was a disaster, an ill omen, the potential ruin of England. When I was a boy, a refusal to eat my peas was the potential ruin of England. An incorrect sum at mathematics, the potential ruin of England. I have lived my entire life in terror of acting incorrectly, because every incorrect action threatened the ruin of England. That terror nearly broke me. I found places to hide. My farms. My observatory.”