The Lost Queen: The Tragedy of a Royal Marriage

by Norah Lofts

  She said, “Very well, Alice. You had better hold yourself in readiness, in case Phyllis is not fit to travel. But I shall send for Doctor Faversham.”

  Alice knew no qualm; if the sharp-eyed young apothecary believed that Phyllis had overeaten and was bilious, the old half-blind doctor would never suspect...

  “Very well, Alice; you may go.”

  Bobbing again, Alice said, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  “And Alice...thank you for offering to step into the breach. I still hope that it will not be necessary; but I shall not forget that you offered.”

  Two of the most inscrutable faces in England confronted one another.

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” Alice said.

  Caroline, emerging from the small drawing room, and just about to cry, had met Alice, controlled herself, and then walked upstairs, dry-eyed. It was like checking a sneeze or a cough; you still wanted to, but you couldn’t and you were left with a funny unfinished feeling. But it was as well that she had not come upstairs howling, as Alice described it, because in the room which had once been the schoolroom but had been transformed into a pretty parlor shared by Caroline and Louise, Edward stood warming his hands by the fire.

  He was her favorite brother; to be honest, the person she loved best in the world. He was extremely handsome, gay, witty, brave, and he had never treated her with condescension because she was female and twelve years his junior. George and Mamma thought that he had a tendency to be frivolous—but that did not prevent their enjoying his company. For the two years between George’s accession and the birth of the new Prince of Wales, Edward had been heir presumptive, a fact which had worried them both. “Charles II all over again, that’s what Edward would be, if anything happened to me.”

  “If anything should happen to George, I should abdicate,” Edward said. He had no ambition and had many friends whom Mamma called raffish.

  But lately Edward had changed; his spirits were less exuberant and sometimes his face wore a clouded, somber look. Caroline was egoistic enough to imagine that the thought of her imminent departure might have something to do with it—he had once expressed vehement disapproval of the whole system of royal marriages. She was glad that she had not entered the room in tears, and she greeted him with forced cheerfulness in her face and voice.

  He had brought her a present; a miniature chest made of red Chinese lacquer, decorated in black and gold; long-legged birds standing among reeds, strange-looking trees and flowers, mountains as precise as sugar cones. It amused him to show her the secret ways of opening it; press on a certain point and the lid flew open to reveal a complete cosmetic set; close it, press another point and the same lid opened, this time to show needles, scissors, everything needed for needlework and embroidery.

  “It works on a tumbler system,” Edward said. He pressed a third point and out from the base sprang a secret drawer. “For jewels, or letters,” he said. It was an entrancing toy, and after she had opened and closed it several times, she fetched the magnificent parure of diamonds and sapphires which George had given her—George was, for a man of such simple taste, surprisingly knowledgeable about precious stones—laid it in the drawer and closed the chest.

  Then she remembered Mamma’s gift, and showed it ward and told him what was engraved inside.

  He said, “I wish that for you too, Caro. With all my health I hope and pray that when you see Christian you may love with him.”

  “He will be my husband. Naturally I shall love him. I tend to.”

  She was so young, so innocent, so completely uninformed. He hesitated for a moment and then said, carefully meaning his words, “I think you should be warned. There is difference between the will to love, involved with a sense duty, and falling in love, which is a completely different thing. I’ll not deny that a good relationship can be built affection, consideration, respect...and people seem to along. But I’d like more than that for you. Real happiness. And to fall in love with Christian is your only way out of the trap in which we were all born.”

  He spoke so gravely and looked so solemn that she was taken aback. It all sounded so portentous; he’d used the word warn, as though he saw some danger ahead; he had said he would pray—Edward who avoided church, read books by a wicked man named Voltaire and once, at least, to Mamma’s great distress, had been seen in company with Francis Dash-wood. It was as though Edward knew something, something more...As of course he did, being a man, a man of the world.

  To the business of being in love she had not given much thought—a storybook thing, like Romeo and Juliet; not for people like herself, betrothed at thirteen. She had hoped that she would find Christian agreeable, that he would find her agreeable, and then they would love one another, as husband and wife should. Christian’s portrait showed that he resembled Edward to a marked degree and if, as Mamma had once suggested, he shared the same tastes, then, in course of time, when she knew him well, she would love him as she loved Edward. Now here was Edward almost saying that that was not enough.

  She said, with considerably less confidence, “Well, then I hope I do. But if will and duty don’t serve...”

  He reached out and took both her hands.

  “Don’t look so worried,” he said. “I was only trying to tell you...You see you are so very like me, and I’ve only just...Caro we were reared wrongly. Mamma meant well, that I grant, but she always pretended that we should inhabit the Garden of Eden. Virtue its own reward, truth will out, duty before self. It isn’t enough. There’s so much for which one is unprepared...”

  Like falling—as he had done—hopelessly, madly in love with a most unsuitable and unlikely person. He’d loved several women in his lighthearted way; all safely married, well-bred, fair, full-fleshed, and gay; three months ago he had fallen in love with a bone-thin, sallow, bitter-tongued girl who had been a prostitute since she was eleven years old.

  He said, in a different voice, “Anyway, Caro, when we say goodbye it will not be for long. I shall come and see you next year.”

  “Oh. How wonderful. Is it really arranged?”

  “I never made the Grand Tour,” he said. “And when George asked me to stand proxy for Christian at your wedding—which I did not much wish to do—I bargained. Time and money and leave to go abroad strictly as a private gentleman. Italy, France, and then Denmark...”

  Felicity would go with him; and they would never return. He’d screw out the last penny and live cheaply, in Russia, or Turkey, where, when funds ran out, he could always take service as a mercenary.

  “Before the year is out, I shall come to see you,” he said. “And I hope”—he reverted to the theme foremost in his mind—”to find you, not only happily married, but in love with Christian.”

  “And how shall I know the difference?”

  “It strikes, like lightning,” he said. Still holding her hands he pulled her toward him and kissed her, “Bless you. God send you happy.” He both hoped and feared for her. He knew her better than anyone else did; knew that under the Mamma-imposed, self-imposed shell, she was impetuous and headstrong and reckless, pathetically anxious to please those of whom she was fond, but at heart, like himself, a rebel, born out of time or out of place. He had seen her through several crises, most of which, he had realized at the time, would never have arisen had she had the good fortune to be born a boy. She had always accepted Mamma’s edicts—no more actual work in the garden, it roughened the hands; no more riding astride, it was unladylike; the necessity of wearing stays, laced tight. Caroline had always said, in these and a dozen other situations, “Yes, Mamma,” “No, Mamma,” and then at the first opportunity, given vent to her feelings, her real feelings, to him. And he, only too well aware that in her place he would have felt exactly the same, had done his to soothe, to explain, and while sympathizing, never to counter to Mamma. And, despite his own present, inter preoccupation with his own problems, he would never forget the night when, having accepted what was her destiny said “Yes, Mamma,” “No, Mamma” she had sought hi
m and become completely hysterical, saying that she would like an uprooted tree, that she could not bear to be exile...And he had wished, just for one moment, that he were in George’s place. By God, he would make some alterations!

  But he wasn’t George; poor George sat in his own trap, Mamma in hers, plainly labeled. An iniquitous system, about which nothing could be done, except make one’s own escape.

  And there was one thought that brought comfort. Whether Caroline achieved happiness in the only way possible, by falling in love with Christian, or missed it by falling in love with somebody else, he could hardly avoid being fond enough of her to treat her kindly. Many reigning monarchs, forced into marriage with ugly, dull princesses often took out their spite on the unfortunate girl. Wife-beating was as common in palaces as in hovels. Even if Christian failed to fall in love with Caroline, he must surely realize that he was extremely fortunate.

  Alice said, “I’m to get you ready, Princess Caroline. Phyllis is worse.”

  “Oh dear. And we leave the day after tomorrow, very early, to catch the Harwich tide...” Alice hugged her delicious secret and waited until Caroline, dressed for the family supper and wearing the loose protective dressing gown, was seated on the stool before the looking glass. Then Alice dipped the thumb and finger of her left hand into the solution of gum arabic, moistened a strand of hair and with a deft movement of the comb transferred a soft natural curl into a coil, resilient enough to resist heat, humidity and movement.

  “There’s no need for you to fret. I found her and I went straight to Her Royal Highness; I told her I did your hair for that Ball when you did your coming out and showed her a darn. So it looks as though you’ll get your wish. If Phyllis can’t travel, and she can’t, time being so short, I’m to take her place. I’m to go with you.”

  In the glass they eyed one another. Alice, expecting to see a look of delight, to hear expressions of pleasure, was surprised and greatly disappointed to see Caroline’s face take on a look that could only be called strange. Caroline, looking at the reflection of Alice with triumph glinting through the usually stolid cast, saw behind the leaden sea and sky, the black humped buildings. And the looming threat. You too!

  Lately she had put the fancy away; it was ridiculous, it must be dismissed. She thought she had overcome it, now here it was, strong and lively as ever.

  “I thought you’d be glad. You said you wished I could go with you. And now, due to Phyllis being taken bad, I can. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I am. I mean I should be if only I could feel certain that it was the right thing for you. There’s the language, Alice. And I’m afraid you’d be lonely.”

  “I’m used to that.” It was true; whenever one caught sight of Alice, even taking the air in her scant free time, she was alone. “And the language I can pick up. What do you want to take?”

  “How can I answer that? Until this moment I thought Phyllis...And I shall still hope that she will recover in time.”

  “And me,” Alice said reproachfully, “going to all that trouble to talk Her Royal Highness round. Making a special darn...”

  After exercising so much self-control with Mamma, and with Edward...

  “Of course I wish you could come, Alice; nothing would please me more and it is only concern for you that makes me hesitate. The truth is—I know this sounds too silly to be true and if you ever mention it, even to me, I shall be extremely angry—now and then, when I think of Denmark I feel that something there threatens me. And just now I felt that if you came you’d be threatened too. In a kind of castle”—putting it into words made it sound more absurd than ever—”and a tower, in a gray sea.”

  “Elsinore,” Alice said. “And no wonder! That was Denmark. ‘Amlet, Prince of Denmark. Don’t you remember? You was Ophelia, drowned dead, so you didn’t ‘ave words to learn, all covered with ‘yacinths, and the tower—it was a ladder wrapped in cloth—tipped over and could’ve killed you if I ‘adn’t caught it and sprained my wrist.”

  One of Mamma’s carefully chosen little scenes from Shakespeare, performed before an equally carefully chosen audience. “To be presented by...” And then all their names and titles in the gilt-edged programs. The whole thing saying clearly, We may avoid the Court, but we are alive, we are being educated, we are capable of making our own entertainment.

  “I had forgotten it entirely. Alice, I think you may...I’m sure you are...right. I failed to make the connection; Denmark, Elsinore and something dangerous. Now I see. Oh, bless you, Alice. And here I’ve been, all this time, worrying away, thinking I had a premonition.”

  “Like me, that time. I knew from the minute the Prince of Wales—well, as he then was—rigged it up, it’d fall, sooner or later, that ladder. So I kept my eye on it all the while I was being the Clown.” People, even the best of them, tended to be ungrateful; here was Princess Caroline, completely forgetful of the fact that Alice’s watchfulness and swift intervention had saved her from injury, possibly from death. But my word, how cunningly Alice had twisted that round, all in a minute, offering explanation and reminder in one.

  “So you will take me?”

  “Very willingly, if it can be arranged. Nobody has so light a hand with a brush as you, Alice.”

  So far as it could be, it was already arranged. Alice had realized very early in life that what you wanted you must get for yourself. Even her being taken into the Princess Dowager’s household had not been luck, but the reward of a diligent, sustained campaign to bring herself to her patroness’s notice, in some favorable light, on her visits to the Foundling Home.

  The explanation of her unrational fear put the seal upon Caroline’s mood. Rebellion, impotence, acceptance, resignation, had been steps leading up to the level of fortitude; she would be cheerful at tonight’s supper party, dignified at tomorrow’s wedding ceremony, brave when the moment of departure came. Common felons, it was often reported, went merrily to execution at Tyburn.

  HARWICH; OCTOBER 2, 1766

  They had traveled, with only the briefest halts, since half past six in the morning and it was now four o’clock and Caroline was tired and cold. In London a still-misty daybreak had promised another day of mild weather, but with every mile eastward the wind had grown colder and rougher and long before they reached Harwich Caroline had thought longingly of the fine sable cloak Queen Charlotte’s gift, packed deep in a trunk in the rearmost carriage. It must be disinterred before she embarked.

  But they were not to sail this afternoon; they were on time and the tide was right, but the ship could not put out with this wind blowing. Count Bothmar, the Danish Ambassador who had accompanied his new Queen on this first stage of her journey, came and stood bareheaded in the gale beside her carriage to give her this information and to tell her that, since the local inn was a poor place, the Customs Officer, a Mr. Davies, had offered her accommodation in his house where there was room for one only.

  Count Bothmar was disgusted. Room for one! In Denmark any family, from highest to lowest, would gladly have vacated their whole house, slept in a stable or cowhouse or in the open in order that their Queen and her nearest attendants should be properly lodged. But the English were peculiar people, lacking all sense of occasion or decorum. He had been much affronted by the attitude of the crowds which gathered in London and along the route. One would have imagined that the Princess was being shipped off to the Cannibal Islands. They cheered and waved and shouted, and some of the things shouted were most offensive. “If they don’t treat you right, dearie, we’ll fetch you back.” “If he don’t live up to his name, we’ll soon have you home.” And though far be it from him to criticize his Queen, Her Majesty’s demeanor had fallen short of perfection. Last evening, at her proxy marriage in the Great Council Chamber, she had been the personification of dignity, but this morning, on parting with her family, especially her mother, she had clung and cried; her response to the cheering crowds had been too exuberant, and when there was no crowd before whom to perform, she had been glo
omy and silent. Well, she was young; she would learn. She was not to blame, her upbringing had been faulty, her mother was plainly eccentric.

  “I will accompany Your Majesty to this man’s house.”

  The man, an oaf, said, “There’s no need, sir. Tisn’t far, but in this wind...” He had then, incredibly, edged Count Bothmar aside, taken a look at the Queen of Denmark, shuffled off his topcoat and wrapped it around her, saying, “The wind is cruel, Your Majesty. You’d best hold onto me; don’ you’ll be blown away.”

  And she, abandoning her suite, her state, her dignity, had said, “Oh, thank you, Mr. Davies; you are very kind,” and gone off, huddled into a Customs Officer’s coat, clutching his arm, across the wet planks of the jetty.

  “It was a bit rough by mid-morning, but nothing like this,” Mr. Davies said, “till about three. Don’t we’d have halted you at Colchester. By the time they’d decided not to sail, it was too late. So Martha said...And we’d have opened the front door, but in all the time we’ve been here it never was opened and short of taking it off the hinges...And we tried the parlor fire, but in this wind all we get is smoke, no heat. So it’s the back door and the kitchen, Your Majesty.”

  With the opening of the door he released a great flood of warmth which battled with the wind, embraced her, drew her in. A huge fire on an open hearth, with a black pot on the hook. A good cooking smell and a woman, mulberry silk’ gown behind a white apron, narrow face, somewhat flushed, earbobs, coming forward, borne on the wave of heat and curtsying and saying, “I bid you welcome, Your Majesty. We’re honored. Come to the fire.”

  Incongruous by the homely hearth stood a velvet-covered chair, digging its clawed feet into the typical cottage rug made by pushing strips of cloth through sacking. Mr. Davies lifted the heavy coat from her shoulders and said, “That’s right, get to the fire.” For a second or two she basked in the heat, holding her hands out to it. Lovely, delicious.