Buckingham House
The King’s Office
11 August 1762
“I can feel you watching me.”
Charlotte moved sheepishly from her spot in the doorway. She’d been spying on George for several minutes. “I like watching you.”
He looked up and raked his hands through his hair. His fingers were stained with ink. “You make it more difficult for me to write.”
“You are doing a fine job, of that I am sure.”
“This is a speech to Parliament. I cannot do a fine job. I must be brilliant.”
Charlotte wandered over to his desk, which was littered with discarded drafts. She picked up the one on top and skimmed it. “These are certainly the words of a brilliant man,” she told him. She motioned to the rest. “And so are these.”
“You haven’t even read those.”
“I don’t need to. You are brilliant, George. Ergo, so will your words be. I have faith in you.”
But he did not look as if he had faith in himself.
She walked back to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, massaging his muscles. “Perhaps you need a bit of a distraction,” she said, a trifle cheekily.
“Distraction?”
“Yes. I believe I have just the distraction to help.” She leaned down and kissed him on that tender spot behind his ear.
But he could not be deterred from his task. Or his anxiety. “I do not need distraction. What I need is to deliver a perfect speech before all Parliament. Or do you wish me to no longer be King?”
“George, no . . .”
“Perhaps I should simply surrender and offer them my head. Put an end to the monarchy. Let them call me Mad King George and laugh. Is that what you wish?”
“Stop.” She could not bear to hear him talk this way.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I need this to be . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut and moved one of his hands near his face, almost as if he were making little chops in the air. “This is important. It might be best if we left the distractions for another time.”
He was right, she supposed. The speech was important. Critically so. And no matter how she tried, she would never truly be able to understand the pressure he was under to get it right. But—
She winced.
Grabbed her belly.
“George?”
“Not right now, Charlotte. I must get back to work.”
Another squeeze. Harder, this time.
“The baby . . .” she said, as calmly as she was able. “It is coming.”
He flew out of his chair. “Now?”
“I believe so.” She looked up at him with a shaky smile. “I’ve never done this before.”
George ran to the door, utter panic seizing his face. “You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be.”
He wrenched open the door and bellowed, “REYNOLDS!”
Charlotte almost had to laugh. Because who else would he call for when his wife went into labor?
George
Buckingham House
A few hours later
It was time. The baby was coming, and as God was his witness, it was going to be the easiest birth in the history of man.
He was King. That had to count for something.
Charlotte had been taken to her bedchamber, which had been meticulously transformed into a birthing room. George had seen it only briefly; he’d been quickly shooed out by, well, everyone.
He’d kept an ear to the door, though, and every now and then a maid would pop out to get towels or tea or some such, and the poor girl would then get grilled by the King.
One or two had fled in tears.
But at least he was getting regular updates.
Charlotte was doing well.
But she was in pain.
But that was normal.
But she was in pain.
But again, Your Majesty, that is normal. And she is bearing it like a Queen.
“What the hell does that mean?” he’d demanded of the maid.
She’d burst into tears. That made three.
It was at that point he’d decided it was well past time that the physician should have arrived to attend to her. She was the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, for the love of God. Every medical mind in the nation ought to be by her side.
Except for Doctor Monro. That went without saying.
He took off down the hall, searching for Reynolds. At this point, he was the only person George trusted, except possibly Brimsley, but for some reason Brimsley had been allowed in the birthing room. He’d spent the last four hours facing the window, George was told.
“Reynolds!” George bellowed.
Two footmen came rushing toward him.
“Get out of my path!” George roared.
The footmen fled.
George skidded around a corner, stopping just before he crashed into Reynolds.
“Where is the doctor?” George demanded. “Why has he not arrived? She cannot do this without a doctor. Opium! She needs opium!”
“I was searching for you to tell you that the Royal Physician has arrived. Just moments ago. I believe he is now with Her Majesty.”
It took George about a half-second to take that in, then he turned on his heel and ran back the way he had come. Only now, when he reached Charlotte’s bedchamber, there were six men gathered by the door. Good Lord. Was there to be no privacy?
“Your Majesty!” the men chorused.
George tried to greet them all. “Archbishop. Prime Minister. Lord Bute. Hello. Thank you for coming. If you’ll excuse me.” He brushed past them to head into the room so he could confer with the physician, but the archbishop grabbed his wrist.
“Your Majesty,” Lord Bute said, “surely you are not entering the birthing room. There is womanly work afoot.”
“We will wait out here,” the archbishop said serenely.
“Right,” George said, tapping his hands nervously against the sides of his thighs. “Yes.”
He paced. Looked to Reynolds for support. Paced some more. Flinched when the air was rent with a scream.
“Charlotte,” he whispered, lurching forward.
This time it was Reynolds who put a hand on his arm. “This is normal,” he said in his deep, soothing voice.
“You know this . . . how?”
“Er, I’ve heard things.”
“You’ve heard things,” George repeated crossly.
“I have sisters. They both have children.”
“Were you present for the births?” George wasn’t sure why he was being such an ass to Reynolds. Probably he just needed to be an ass to someone, and he couldn’t very well do it to the archbishop.
“I was not,” Reynolds said in that ever-calm manner of his. “But they are both prodigious storytellers, and I was informed of every last detail.”
Another scream, although perhaps not as piercing as the last.
“This cannot be normal,” George said.
Reynolds opened his mouth to speak, but just then the door opened, and Lady Danbury poked her head out.
George regarded her with some surprise. When had she arrived?
“Your Majesty,” she said. “She is asking for you.”
“He cannot be in there,” the archbishop interjected.
Lady Danbury looked at George with a firm, direct gaze. “Your Majesty.”
George turned to the archbishop. “Do you like being Archbishop of Canterbury? Would you like to remain Archbishop of Canterbury?”
The archbishop’s chin drew back into his neck. “Your Majesty—”