“Oh, right, sorry about that.” He pulled something out of the Queen. It looked rather like an iron duck.
Brimsley really wished he had not been watching.
It was not easy being a man who loved men, but by God, it was better than being a woman.
Kew Palace
The Front Portico
24 February 1762
“Another one?” Reynolds asked.
“She writes to him at least twice each week,” Brimsley said. “You should not be surprised that I am here to deliver another letter.”
“We usually meet in the park.”
“The Queen has received no replies to the letters I have delivered to you in the park. I thought it prudent to travel to Kew myself.”
“Brimsley,” Reynolds said on a sigh. He raked his hand through his hair. “Brimsley, please.”
“What?”
“Just that—” But Reynolds did not finish his sentence. He never finished any sentences about the King.
“The Queen suffers,” Brimsley said. His voice was sharp, sharper than he’d ever used with Reynolds.
Reynolds just shook his head. “You know I cannot. My duty . . .”
“She suffers,” Brimsley all but snapped.
“I can’t . . . I am not able . . .”
“Much as I would love to stand here and help you find your words, I have my own duties to attend to. Deliver the letter to His Majesty.”
Brimsley handed him the envelope and started to walk away, but then Reynolds called out his name. “Wait!”
Brimsley turned.
“I want you to know,” Reynolds said haltingly, “I deliver them. I deliver them all. Personally.”
“And is he reading them?”
Reynolds swallowed uncomfortably. “I do not know. I could not say.”
Brimsley very much suspected that meant no. “Perhaps there is something we can do,” he said, “to bring them back together. Surely that is what is best.”
Reynolds looked dubious, almost pained.
“I have scrubbed the walls clean,” Brimsley told him. “There is no more trace of that night. And we can shield the garden. If His Majesty requires time to bathe in the moonlight without his garments, we can build a screen.”
“A screen,” Reynolds repeated with disbelief. “You think this can be solved with a screen?”
“There is something else,” Brimsley said. “Her Majesty—she is in a state I have never seen before. I worry, Reynolds. I fear the Queen teeters on disaster. I wonder if Her Majesty might better see that man again. The King’s doctor. For her mind, this time.”
“Absolutely not,” Reynolds said sharply.
“Reynolds, just listen—”
“I said no!” And this time, it was a roar.
Brimsley felt his face grow hot. “You give me nothing,” he seethed. “You tell me nothing but lies. I ask for your help, and you refuse to treat me like a partner or equal.”
“I cannot help you!” Reynolds thundered.
Or was it a wail?
It was somehow both.
But he clenched the letter from Brimsley in his hand before heading back to the front door.
Brimsley shook his head and headed back to his coach.
“Wait!”
Brimsley turned around.
“Tell her . . . Tell her he misses her,” Reynolds said.
“Does he?”
“He does. I am sure of it.”
“Has he said this?” Brimsley asked.
Reynolds did not answer.
No, then.
Brimsley kept this in mind when he returned to Buckingham House later that day.
“Any word?” the Queen asked him. She was on her way to sit for a portrait and had been dressed in her wedding finery. It was painfully ironic.
“I am afraid not, Your Majesty.”
“You are sure he is receiving the letters?”
Brimsley was sure that he was not receiving them. Or at the very least, that he was not reading them. But he avoided an outright lie by saying, “I am delivering them, Your Majesty.”
The Queen frowned and peered down the hall. “Is she still here?” she asked, referring to Princess Augusta. “She has not fallen down a flight of stairs or choked on a cube of meat?”
“I am sorry to report that she remains alive and well, Your Majesty.”
The Queen groaned.
“It is time to sit for your portrait, Your Majesty,” Brimsley reminded her.
She groaned again, although perhaps not quite as loudly as she had about Princess Augusta. “It is so tedious.”
“And yet an indispensable part of royal life, Your Majesty. A Queen must be remembered for the ages.”
“It is odd, isn’t it? My likeness shall hang on these walls for centuries. And yours shall not.”
She did not mean to be unkind. Brimsley knew this. She was simply the Queen. She was different.
“You should also be remembered in some way,” the Queen said. “Perhaps we all should.”
“That sounds almost revolutionary, Your Majesty.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” She gave him a humorless smile. “It is probably because I chafe so keenly with the Dowager Princess in residence.”
“As do we all,” Brimsley murmured.
“You grow bold, Brimsley,” the Queen said.
“My apologies.”
“None required,” the Queen answered, striding into the salon where she’d been sitting for the royal portrait.
“There you are!” Princess Augusta trilled.
“Speak of the devil,” Charlotte muttered.
Brimsley tried not to smile.
“Mr. Ramsay has been waiting for you,” Princess Augusta said. “Please resume your pose.”
“Right this way, Your Majesty,” Brimsley said, leading her to her assigned spot. “May I get you anything? Refreshment?”
“She is not drinking a glass of lemonade in the portrait,” Princess Augusta said.
“I shall be fine,” the Queen told him.
Brimsley moved back to his spot at the edge of the room. This was at least the fourth sitting Queen Charlotte had done. It was excruciatingly dull, but she looked magnificent. Her hair had been dressed like a cloud to support her bridal tiara, just as it had been on the day of her wedding.
How could anyone not love her?
“Are we almost finished?” the Queen asked.
“I am afraid I am not even half done,” Mr. Ramsay said.
“Ramsay,” said the Queen. “That cannot be true. I am not so large a woman.”
“No, Your Majesty, but . . .”
He turned the canvas around. Brimsley stepped forward for a better look. Queen Charlotte was nearly done, and an excellent likeness it was. But beside her . . . nothing but a yawning blank space where the King ought to be.
“We still need the King,” Mr. Ramsay said awkwardly.
“He is not yet available,” Princess Augusta said.
“Nevertheless,” the artist said, “it is a wedding portrait. By His Majesty’s request.”
“Yes,” the Queen said pointedly. “His Majesty requested a wedding portrait.”
“His Majesty is quite thoughtful,” Princess Augusta said.
Brimsley’s eyes flicked from woman to woman. There were entire conversations going on between their spoken words. Diatribes. Wars.
“My skin is too light,” the Queen said suddenly. She turned to the artist. “Paint my skin darker. As it actually is.”
“Your Majesty,” Ramsay said. Brimsley almost felt sorry for him.
“Let me see,” Princess Augusta said. She rose from her position on the sofa and inspected the half-finished portrait. “No,” she said in that sharp voice of hers. “Paint her skin lighter. Pale. His Majesty wants her to glow.”