He hadn’t, but he’d tried. They’d both tried. Agatha knelt before him, taking his little hands in hers. “You showed them who you are.”
He looked at her with a solemn expression. “Dominic Danbury. Son of Herman Danbury.”
“Yes. You are. And you are Lord Danbury, and you will take your rightful place because you are entitled to it. And because you are my son, too. You are the son of Agatha Danbury, born name Soma, royal blood of the Gbo Mende tribe in Sierra Leone. You come from warriors.”
“Warriors?” he whispered.
“We win.” She squeezed his hands. “Never forget that.”
She needed only to remember that herself.
Brimsley
Buckingham House
The King’s Gardens
31 January 1762
Nearly two months had passed since the King’s episode.
Episode.
Brimsley did not know what else to call it, but by God, episode seemed far too benign.
He was not sure he could ever forgive Reynolds for keeping a secret of that nature. Yes, he understood Reynolds’s need to defend the King, but surely the Queen had had a right to know.
Which meant that Brimsley should have been told. He could have supported her. He could have prepared her.
Very well, he could not have prepared her. Nothing could have prepared her for that. But he could have tried. He could have done something so it wasn’t quite so stunningly horrific.
As for the King, he had not been seen at Buckingham House even once since that fateful day. He had departed for Kew and refused to receive visitors.
Not even the Queen.
She wrote him letters. She wrote him so many letters, but she received no response.
Brimsley tried to get answers, but Reynolds told him almost nothing. Just that the King had returned to his scientific pursuits. And that he was receiving treatment for his malady. Brimsley had asked him what sort of treatment (because honestly, what did one do for such a thing?), but Reynolds had told him that it was none of his business.
And also to shut up.
Brimsley was not happy with Reynolds these days.
“Are you warm enough, Your Majesty?” he asked. It was mild for January, but still, it was January, and they were standing at the edge of the King’s gardens.
“Yes,” she replied. “I shall not be outside for long.”
Brimsley looked out over the garden patch. It was no longer bursting with life, but several hardy vegetables still grew and bloomed. It was remarkable, really.
“The King is quite talented,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“To have cultivated plants that grow through the winter.”
“He does like his science.”
Brimsley peered down. “What is it? Broccoli? Tiny cabbages? I am sure they are delicious.”
“Have them harvested, given to the poor,” she said.
“Right away, Your Majesty.” He was just deciding who best to contact about this when a footman hurried over.
“Princess Augusta has arrived,” the footman said quietly.
Brimsley tried not to audibly groan.
“Has he written?” the Queen asked. There was hope in her voice.
It was the hope that hurt the most.
“I am afraid not, Your Majesty. It is the Dowager Princess.”
The Queen made no attempt to hide her displeasure. “What does she want?”
Brimsley looked to the footman.
“She has arrived with Lord Bute,” the footman said.
“I am not receiving visitors,” Charlotte said, and marched away.
The footman grabbed Brimsley’s arm. “There is more,” he said urgently. “She has brought the Royal Physician.”
The Queen turned around, having obviously overheard the footman. “I absolutely refuse to see the physician.”
Buckingham House
The Queen’s Bedchamber
Thirty minutes later, the Royal Physician was examining the Queen, who was flat on her back in her bed, skirts up, legs spread. Brimsley was standing at the far wall, scrupulously facing away. Princess Augusta had tried to order him to leave, but the Queen had intervened. She had not said so, but Brimsley rather thought she wanted an ally.
He hoped she saw him as such. It had taken her some time to forgive him for what she had perceived as his disloyalty. He hoped she understood that he had truly not known the extent of the King’s illness.
Or really, that he was ill at all.
“You are taking a long time,” Princess Augusta said, presumably to the doctor.
“A very long time,” Lord Bute added.
“I am precise,” the doctor replied.
The Queen let out a sigh. More of a groan, really.
“Your Majesty?” Brimsley called out. He had seen the doctor’s devices before she had taken her place on the bed. They had looked like instruments of torture. All shiny metal and weird shapes. Brimsley didn’t know a whole lot about the female body (honestly, he’d probably learned as much as the Queen during Lady Danbury’s lesson at tea all those months ago), but he did not see how any of these awful contraptions were meant to fit anywhere.
“It is nothing,” the Queen replied stoically.
“It is not nothing,” the doctor finally said. “She is with child.”
Princess Augusta made a sound that approached glee. “It is done, then?”
“Are you certain?” Lord Bute asked.
“There can be no doubt,” the doctor stated.
“Doubts are the better part of a woman’s insides,” Princess Augusta pronounced.
Brimsley winced. What the devil did that mean?
“Are you as sure as you can be?” Princess Augusta continued.
“Oh, quite sure,” the doctor said. “In fact, Her Majesty is quite far along. Making magnificent progress.”
“Thank God,” Lord Bute said. “Can we announce?”
“Not until the quickening,” Princess Augusta said with the tone of one plotting a strategic assault. “When will that be?”
“Within a month, I should expect,” the doctor said.
The Princess let out another little gleeful chirp.
“Congratulations, Your Highness,” Lord Bute said to Princess Augusta. He was beaming.
“I should think congratulations are due as much to you, Lord Bute,” she replied.
And what of the Queen? Brimsley wondered. Why was no one congratulating her? She was the one growing a baby in her womb. She was the only one in the room who had actually contributed to the making of this royal heir.
Brimsley stole a look at her. He was closer to her head than her feet, so he did not see anything untoward. He caught her eye. She looked to the ceiling, then sighed.
“Is she done yet?” Brimsley inquired. Because honestly, she did not look comfortable.
He was ignored. Princess Augusta moved to Charlotte’s head and peered right down at her. “I will have my things moved over to Buckingham House at once.”
Brimsley winced. The Queen would not like that.
Augusta patted her on the shoulder. It was probably meant to be maternal, but to Brimsley there was something monstrous about it. Poor Charlotte on the bed with Augusta’s face filling her entire vision.
“You carry the crown,” Princess Augusta said. “Your safety is most important. I shall not leave you alone for a moment. We shall wait for the future king’s arrival together.”
“Together,” the Queen said weakly.
“Doctor,” Princess Augusta said. “That thing is still inside her.”