And what was coming out of this Investigation he could not imagine. He knew what his son, the Prince of Wales, wanted. He wanted the case proved against his wife. He wanted a divorce.
‘Shocking, eh, what?’ said the King aloud.
And there was the child, Young Charlotte – all ears. She was a sharp one. His mouth curved into a smile. Little minx, that was Charlotte. But he was glad to have her here under his care. She was his granddaughter. None of them must forget that, and although he was ill and his sight was failing – and his reason too, some said – he was still the King.
The Queen had come into the room. She came unannounced, as she would never have done before his illness. He had been the master then; but now, he was too old, too feeble.
‘Your Majesty, I have come to accompany you to the Drawing Room.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, but he continued to sit at the table.
She was looking at him anxiously. She was always watching for the signs. When he began to speak rapidly, when he was incoherent, when the veins stood out at his temples and his face was puce colour she really began to be frightened. It was not that she had a great deal of affection for him. She had never loved him. That had not been possible. When she had come to England he had been kind to her and had successfully hidden his disappointment to find a plain and gauche young German girl was to be his wife when he had dreamed of lovely Sarah Lennox with whom he was in love; he had at least not blamed her, but had meekly accepted his fate while at the same time he made it clear that she should have no power outside her own household; she had come to England to bear children and that was what she had done for twenty years – fifteen children and that didn’t leave much time in between pregnancies.
But when he had lost his reason and she had made her alliance with Mr Pitt against the Prince of Wales and Mr Fox, Queen Charlotte had become quite a power at Court; and when the King had recovered – though not fully – he had been too weak, too ill to oust her from the position she had made for herself.
‘Is there any news?’ he asked.
‘You mean of the Investigation. There is nothing fresh.’
The King shook his head. ‘I thought she was a pleasant woman. Not without good looks … ready to be a good wife …’
The Queen’s mouth shut like a trap; it was thin and wide and even had she possessed perfect features apart from it – which she certainly did not – it would have prevented any claim to beauty.
‘I knew it was wrong, right from the beginning. And so did George.’
The King shook his head and tears came into his eyes. There were almost always tears in his eyes. The Queen was not certain whether they were due to ophthalmic weakness or emotion.
‘I thought he was going to refuse …’ he began.
‘Better if he had,’ retorted the Queen. She felt a grim satisfaction because the marriage had gone wrong. She had had a niece, beautiful, accomplished Louise of Mecklenburg-Strelitz who had needed a husband at the time – and the Prince, to plague her, had chosen his father’s niece, Caroline of Brunswick, rather than his mother’s.
‘Perhaps it will come right between them,’ said the King.
The Queen gave a snort of laughter. ‘After this Investigation that is hardly likely. She’s a coarse and vulgar creature and George is the most fastidious prince in Europe.’
‘Too much time spent on prancing about in fancy dress. This fellow Brummell …’
‘Oh, you know what George is. He’s always been the same.’ Her expression was one of mingling pride and anger. She had loved her firstborn as she loved nothing else on earth – or ever would. She had craved his affection. And when he had scorned her she had deliberately sought to soothe her feelings by turning that love into a fierce hatred. They would be surprised, she often thought, all these people who surrounded her and regarded her as cold Queen Charlotte, incapable of emotion. There could never have been fiercer emotion than that she felt towards her eldest son. When he had been born she had believed that to be the happiest moment of her life; she had not been able to bear him out of her sight; she had a wax image made of him which she kept on her dressing table. Her beautiful George, her clever precocious son who had charmed everyone with his brilliance and arrogant manners and his fastidious ways as a boy. And when he had flouted her, shown so clearly that there was no place for his dowdy old mother in his life, love had turned to hate – but the love was still there smouldering. This doddering old man meant nothing to her compared with her brilliant magnificent son.
And the idea of marrying him to that dreadful creature! Thank God, she had had no hand in that and had in fact done all in her power to prevent it. Now perhaps they were sorry they had not taken her advice … and none more so than George himself.
‘The child’s mother swears that this … Willie … is hers. She gives details of the hospital where he was born. That makes a clear case for Caroline. They can’t accuse her of being his mother. How I wish … What’s the use? These scandals. They’re no good for the family, eh, what?’
‘The sooner she is sent back to Brunswick the better.’
‘We can’t do that.’
‘Well, if she is not found to be the mother of this boy there are many other things she can be accused of. It’s quite shocking. The Princess of Wales living apart from her husband and entertaining men!’
‘It was he who refused to live with her, you know. I spoke to them both. “Never,” he said. “I’d rather die.” And as for her, she said if he didn’t want her he could stay away. But I could see she would have had him back if he would go.’
‘Nothing can be done until the Investigation is completed. But I do think that woman should be kept away from Charlotte.’
‘The little minx,’ said the King fondly.
‘Indeed so and in need of correction which she shall have. There is an improvement since she has been here at Windsor.’
‘Good fellow, Fisher. Nott too … She’s bright, eh, what?’
‘Far from brilliant but by no means foolish. I do not like the stammer though; and she is too impulsive and most ungraceful. I have seen her father shudder when he looks at her.’
The King’s face grew a shade more puce. ‘His conduct has not always been so … so good … that he can afford to be critical of others, eh, what?’
The Queen said: ‘I was speaking of deportment. Charlotte is gauche and clumsy. It must be rectified.’
‘She dances prettily.’
Fond and foolish where the young were concerned, thought the Queen.
She said: ‘She must spend more time with her aunts.’
Her aunts. His daughters. His darling love Amelia – kind and gentle, always affectionate to her own father, and yet he could not think of her without alarm, because of all the family she was the invalid.
‘Amelia’s cough …’
‘Is better,’ said the Queen.
They always told him it was better. But was it?
‘And that pain in her knee?’
‘It is nothing. The doctors say it will improve.’
He couldn’t really believe them. They had to soothe the poor mad old king.
‘It is time we went,’ said the Queen. ‘We shall be late for the Drawing Room.’
Ugh! thought Charlotte. What a family!
Lady de Clifford was close to her, praying she would do nothing to bring disgrace on herself and her governess. There seated on her chair was the Queen and beside her the King. No one need be frightened of him. He was simply poor old Grandpapa who was always kind and liked to be told one loved him. The old Begum was a different matter.