Charlotte and Brimsley both looked at him, as if to say, And?
“He was still on the floor, but it was worse than before. He’d curled into a tight little ball, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible. As if he were trying to disappear.”
Charlotte choked back a sob.
“I told everyone the door was jammed,” Reynolds said. He looked at Charlotte with regret. “I don’t think anyone believed me.”
“There was nothing else you could have done,” Brimsley said. He started to reach out a hand, as if to console, but he pulled it back.
Reynolds swallowed spasmodically. For a moment, Charlotte thought he might cry.
“I will go see him,” she said.
“Your Majesty,” Reynolds said. “I don’t know . . .”
“I am his wife. I will go see him.”
Before she reached the door, Brimsley was there, holding out a small cordial glass. “Apple schnapps,” he said.
She took a sip. Then another. It tasted like home. No, it tasted like Mecklenburg-Strelitz. London was her home now.
“I am ready,” she said.
Brimsley took the glass back and nodded. “I will take you there.”
Buckingham House
The King’s Bedchamber
A few minutes later
The room was dark when Charlotte entered, the curtains drawn tightly against the late afternoon sun.
“George?” she called out. “George? It is me.”
“Charlotte?” His voice was muffled. She looked around. She did not see him.
“Yes, darling. It is me. Reynolds told me what happened. I am here, George.” She walked to the windows and pulled back the curtains. Light flooded in, but still, she did not see him.
Behind his dressing screen? No. At his desk? Under his desk? No.
“George? George, where are you?”
And then, in the tiniest, saddest voice, “I am sorry.”
It took her a moment. She lowered herself to the floor and looked under the bed. George was there, flat on his back, still in his splendid uniform.
Her heart breaking, she said, “George, dearest. Can you come out for me?”
“I want to,” he said. “But I cannot. It is the heavens. They cannot find me under here. I am hiding.”
“You are hiding,” she repeated patiently. “From the heavens.”
“They are thwarted under here.”
“George, all is well.”
“No,” he told her. “All is very, very wrong.”
She did not know how to lie to him any longer. He was correct. All was very wrong. She took a deep breath, lay on her back, and scooted herself under the bed until she was lying right beside him. Staring up at the underside of the bed.
“Tell me,” she said.
“I could not get out of the carriage. I could not even read the words on the page. I am not a king. I am no one’s king.”
“You will do better next time,” she said reassuringly.
“No. There is no better. There is no cure. This is who I am.”
“I love who you are,” she said.
He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I will be here sometimes and sometimes I will be . . .” He looked at her, his eyes tortured. “You can leave me. I would understand, and I would let you go.”
“George,” she said, “I will not leave you.”
“You should.”
“I will not.”
“You have half a husband, Charlotte. Half a life. I cannot give you the future you deserve. Not a full me. Not a full marriage. Only half. Half a man. Half a King. Half a life.”
“If what we have is half, then we shall make it the very best half. I love you. It is enough.”
She reached out and took his hand, laced their fingers together.
“I am your Queen,” she said. “And as long as I am so, I will never leave your side. You are King. You will be King. Your children will rule.” She gave his hand an extra squeeze. “Together, we are whole.”
They lay there, staring up.
“It is quite dust filled under here,” George finally remarked.
Charlotte stifled a tiny laugh. “It really is.”
He motioned with his free hand. “That one looks like a cumulus cloud.”
She motioned with her free hand. “That one looks like a deformed bunny.”
“You mean a Pomeranian?”
“No, I mean a deformed bunny. Pomeranians are regal and dignified.”
He smiled. She did not see it, because she was not looking at his face, but she could hear it in the tenor of his breath.
But then his voice grew serious. Rueful. “I am so sorry that I did not give you a choice. That I did not tell you the truth of who I was before we wed.”
“You did tell me the truth. You said you were Just George. And that is who you are. Half King. Half Farmer. But always Just George. That is all you need to be.”
They lay in silence for several moments, the only sound the air from their lips, slowly evening out until they breathed in unison.
“I do not know how to repair what happened at Parliament,” George said. “I fear it will overtake my Crown.”
“If the Crown cannot go to Parliament, we shall bring Parliament to the Crown. Perhaps it is time we opened the doors to Buckingham House.”
“What do you mean?”
“A ball.”
“Here?”
“Why not?”
“It will be very crowded.”
“It was crowded at the Danbury Ball,” Charlotte reminded him, “and you performed beautifully.”
He turned to face her. “That was because you were with me.”
She turned to face him and smiled. “Exactly.”
Agatha
St. James’s Palace
Princess Augusta’s Sitting Room
21 September 1762
“It is a surprise to see you again so soon,” the Princess said to Agatha. “You have news?”
“News?”
“Of Buckingham House.”
“No,” Agatha said. “I do not have news.”
Augusta raised her brows as if to say—Then why are you here?
Agatha took a deep breath. “I need to know, Your Royal Highness. Has there been a decision?”
But Augusta had clearly decided to feign ignorance. “A decision about what?”
“About the title. Is my son to be Lord Danbury?”
That was the question—along with so much that was left unsaid. Would Lord and Lady Smythe-Smith get to pass their titles to their children? Would there ever be a second Duke of Hastings? The fate of many rested on this one decision.
“As I told you before,” Princess Augusta said, “that is a decision only His Majesty can make. I would think you would have news on the issue yourself. You are close to the royal couple. You were there at the birth. The birth of my grandchild.”
“I cannot . . .” Agatha swallowed, trying to hold herself together. “I could not speak to the King or Queen on such matters.”
“Such a shame. I could be so helpful.” There was a moment of silence, and then the Princess leaned forward, her eyes sharp. “Her Majesty is attempting to run the Crown. I am sure of it. What do you know?”
Agatha held her tongue. She would not betray Charlotte again. No matter how high the stakes.
“The ball, then,” Princess Augusta said. “I have been informed that they intend to host a ball at Buckingham House. What know you of that?”
“I know nothing,” Agatha said quite honestly. “I have not received an invitation.”