The Lost Queen: The Tragedy of a Royal Marriage

by Norah Lofts

  “I make it a habit,” he said, “when dealing with an adult who is conscious, of treating medical matters as a private thing, between me and the patient. So if you would ask your ladies to withdraw...”

  His manner lacked respect and for that she blamed Christian. Not that it mattered; nothing mattered now.

  When they were alone he turned to the window and looked out toward where the woods blazed in their brief autumn glory.

  “It is a beautiful day,” he said. “There will not be many more. It would do you good to get up and take a walk in the sun.”

  How clever! Well enough to walk in the sun in the morning; not well enough to attend the opera in the evening.

  “And that is what you prescribe?”

  He turned back and propped one of his heavy shoulders against the bedpost. Again not correct!

  “Among other things. You lack fresh air and exercise. Possibly also your diet is faulty. You are English. When I was in England I noted the wealth of vegetables; at one dinner, ten vegetable dishes. Here we have few and not so good. But these are trivialities. What really ails you—and you know this as well as anyone—is the separation from your child.”

  Clever again; said sympathetically, to lead her on, make her admit that she was, in effect, sulking.

  “That is outside your province, Doctor Struensee.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, and smiled. The smile looked kind, and as he moved his head the light caught his eyes and she realized that he was not all brown. His eyes were as blue as cornflowers. “In fact the first thing I shall prescribe will be the return of the child to your keeping.”

  “That would be a waste of time…” she said with quiet bitterness. “His Majesty would never agree.”

  “I never waste time,” Struensee said. “I give you my word the child shall be back with you, completely in your hands, within a week.”

  Her heart, which had beat with such deceptive steadiness under the wooden tube, began to leap and impede her breath,

  “How can you promise such a thing?”

  “His Majesty has convinced himself that I saved his life last Saturday night. My stock stands so high with him, whatever I asked he would consent to.”

  She was still a little cautious.

  “And why should you side with me in this...this difference of opinion about how a child should be reared?”

  “First as a matter of principle. I believe that mothers and children should be together. But that is not all. I need your trust, your good will, your cooperation. Don’t mistake me; I am not striking a bargain. The boy comes back to you whether you work with me or not.”

  “Work with you?” she repeated the phrase in a puzzled way. “I don’t know what that means. What I do know is that to have him back, to have him until he was...six, and was strong and happy and knew right from wrong, I would do, I would give anything.”

  “I shan’t hold you to that, I promise,” he smiled again. “If you would just remember that I mean well. How long is it since you were on a horse?”

  “Oh, a long time. I hardly remember. His Majesty did not approve; and my Master of Horse was embarrassed. And if I insisted something always happened to the horses, they went lame, or had the staggers.”

  “They now have me to deal with,” he said, and laughed. “In my early days some of my best patients were horses. And cows. If I present myself, with two sound horses, at the south door this afternoon at three o’clock, would you feel able to ride with me for half an hour?”

  “If I did that,” she said in a burst of frankness, “I should be almost bound to make an appearance this evening.”

  “Not if I said you were too much exhausted by the exercise. But it might be that having heard what I have to say—things that cannot be said here—you may attend the opera this evening, willingly.”

  “In return for having my child back?”

  “But I promised,” he said. “I told you there was no bargaining. There is the future to think of and that is what we must discuss, where there is no chance of being overheard.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Three o’clock this afternoon; at the south door.”

  To Alice, and to Alice alone, she confided the exciting news; trusting that it would cheer her. Alice for the last day or two had been unusually glum.

  “Alice, this morning Doctor Struensee promised me, firmly promised, that at the end of this week we shall have Freddy back. This afternoon I am going to ride with him to discuss the future.”

  The future was not shaping itself as Alice had planned. By now the daft little runt who was King of Denmark should have been lying in state, stone dead and Princess Caroline should be top dog. What had happened to the stuff? Did they fob off people at a safe distance with an inferior article? Did the sea voyage affect it? In that quiet, eerily waiting room, lighted by the single candle, she had put into the water carafe four times as much as had practically killed Phyllis. Alice had failed and she was not accustomed to failure; quietly, working like a mole, she had always, hitherto, achieved her objective. Now in her biggest enterprise she had failed; so she was glum.

  “It’d be nice to have him back,” she admitted, knowing that this was what Caroline had longed and pined for, poor dear. But when she looked into the future she saw little hope, not so long as the daft fellow could swing things his way, that way, by a word. Alice said, “We shall have to get to work on him, shan’t we?”

  Doctor Struensee plainly had influence. From some unidentified tack room where her own saddle had hung gathering dust, it had been unearthed, cleaned and polished and there, on the back of a sound but not very exciting-looking horse, it awaited her. Just to be riding again was pure pleasure and it was a wonderful afternoon, still warm and sunny, just touched and crisped by the cold which, at dusk, might harden into frost. Life renewed itself in her.

  “Let them walk,” Struensee said, after one brisk trot. “Here, nobody can listen or spy. I can tell you that at this moment the King is dictating an order, carefully worded, for the amalgamation of the Royal Households. Economy is the official reason, so that no one can take offense.”

  She said, “I can still hardly believe it. And I can never express one tithe of my gratitude to you.”

  “I don’t want gratitude to color your attitude toward what I am about to propose,” he said very seriously. “It concerns the King’s mental condition. What I am going to say may be a shock to you. I believe that within a year he will be hopelessly insane.”

  She said, “Poor man,” and then, after a little pause, “I suppose that accounts for his behavior.” She looked back over the years of her marriage; yes, madness accounted for everything.

  “Poor man indeed,” Struensee said. “But at least he will be humanely treated. We must look at the wider issues. In my opinion he is, even now, unfit to govern; with care that fact can be concealed for a year. But somebody must govern.”

  “I couldn’t do it,” she said promptly. “I know nothing of politics or procedures; and I dare not face the responsibility.”

  “You repudiated that idea very hastily. Have you ever given the matter any thought?”

  “No. Well at least”—she laughed rather shyly—”when the Crown Prince was removed I did wish that I were Catherine of Russia, and could have my own way. But I know I’m not that kind of woman. I just want to live in peace and watch my child grow, and presently teach him a few simple things.”

  “And so you shall,” he said comfortably. “I’m prepared to take on the government of Denmark; but I shall need your help.”

  “In what way?”

  “By countenancing what I do. You may know nothing of politics but you are Queen. The nobles who regard me as an upstart have a great respect for you. If you appeared to approve of and support me, it would be of inestimable help—especially in the beginning. I hope that you will wholeheartedly support and genuinely approve; naturally I should discuss things with you and take note of your opinions...Most of the reforms I plan are based
on the English pattern.”

  “I shall favor them, of course,” she said, giving him a bright glance.

  What a difference a little happiness made, he reflected rather sadly, remembering the limp, surly woman he had examined only a few hours ago. Well, it was his firm intention to make happy as many people as possible.

  He said, “So far as the King is concerned your cooperation is even more essential. He is not yet demonstrably incapable and until he is, he and you and I must appear to be in the closest accord, a sort of Trinity.”

  “You mean that I must sit by him at the opera this evening,” she said and laughed. “How oddly things turn out. This morning I felt that you had been sent to force me into doing it. Now I will do it most willingly. Do you realize that they were giving him great doses of calomel—my son, I mean—and charting the results with complacency.”

  For the rest of the short ride they talked about rearing children. Some of his ideas were extreme; letting children rim barefooted, for example. Others called Mamma to mind; and when he suggested that the Crown Prince should be given a little foundling boy of his own age as constant companion and playmate and that absolutely no difference should be made between them, she thought inevitably of Alice. At Kew some differences had been made and Caroline had always resented them and sometimes protested, saying Alice must have some, too.

  When they dismounted he dived into his pocket and produced a couple of small apples; one for each horse. She realized then why his clothes sat so badly on him; he did not mind what he put into his pockets.

  “I should have thought of that,” she said, taking the apple that he offered her and holding to the velvety muzzle. “I always did, in the old days. Today I forgot.”

  “I always think: what dull lives they have, even in kind hands. Eating is almost the only positive pleasure.”

  Something within her, too deeply hidden even to have a name, woke and stirred. She took leave of him rather hurriedly.

  Struensee was well satisfied with his day’s work. His new tool had fitted itself into his hand with surprising ease. But something about her, a directness, a simplicity, a sweetness, had made him decide to exploit her as little as possible. She must be used, but she must be kept happy, too.

  COPENHAGEN; WINTER 1769—SPRING 1770

  Alice had her own ideas about the treatment of children and if at times these did not coincide exactly with the doting of fond mother and the theories of a doctor, she still knew that she was right. She had had experience.

  She played a game with the Crown Prince of Denmark, a game with a meaning. He sat on her knees and she chanted:

  “This is the way the ladies ride—trip, trip, trip.

  This is the way the gentlemen ride—trot, trot, trot.

  This is the way the farmers ride—jog, jog, jog.”

  The movement of her knees fitted the word of action and the jogs were quite violent: get some of the fat off him, get his brains working. At the end of the chant she said, “Say Mamma!”

  He was so backward that the installation of a young orphan had had to be postponed for a while; orphans of his age walked and talked and had learned the first lessons of survival in a hostile world. The little boy was already chosen; his name was Tammi and it was hoped that he might be brought to the palace in time for Christmas.

  As time went on, Alice’s voice took on a certain astringency. “Say Mamma!” She was determined that that should be the first word spoken by that laggard tongue. It was not. One evening, sitting in Caroline’s lap, Freddy said with the utmost clarity, “Jog, jog, jog. Say Mamma!” Caroline hugged him and wept from relief. In a short time he was garrulous. Jogged by Alice, dieted by Struensee, he lost weight and began to walk, not in a tentative way, one step today and two tomorrow, but boldly, confidently, making up for lost time.

  Alice, surveying this progress and Princess Caroline’s new happiness, now knew that it was all her doing. She had seemed to fail in her effort to remove the tyrant, but she had made him ill enough to put the fear of God, of hell and damnation into the little sod who’d thought he could play fast and loose with Alice’s Princess. Alice could well imagine how, waking in the dark, catting his guts up, he’d been terrified into a determination to mend his ways.

  Sometimes she woke in the night herself and had uncomfortable thoughts about Judgment Day. But she could always plead that she’d had a bad start and had done what she could. To this were two answers: You tried to commit murder! And—You didn’t do so bad, neither! God, when he rebuked her, spoke in the controlled voice of the Princess of Wales; when he approved, he spoke like Mrs. Brewster of the Foundling Home in St. Giles.

  It was a winter of gaiety, change and gossip. Other people than Alice saw a change in the King; where once he had been amused in the wrong place, by the wrong thing, or the wrong person, now he was amused by nothing at all; he seldom danced, he sat through the most lively entertainment with a look of boredom and generally behaved with an aloofness that gave him an almost portentous dignity.

  The change in his demeanor was acceptable; change in policy held an alarming element. In the first year of his reign, when he was tightening the rules of etiquette, demanding monosyllabic replies, the constant use of his title, he had, paradoxically, professed liberal views and mentioned reforms which he intended to bring about. In five years he had made no changes at all, except in dismissing old ministers; even so Count Bernstorff had survived. Now he was dismissed and as though he had been the rock holding back the flood, once he had gone, the spate of reforms came thick and fast.

  The first was the liberation of the Press; censorship was abolished; and the chief result of that was a flow of laudatory articles praising the monarch and his Council. Criticism of the government, attack by lampoon and caricature, never having been known in Denmark, took some time to breed.

  The proposal to reopen the primary schools was understood and accepted, because the dearth of educated poor men was beginning to be felt; everyone knew of Customs Officers who could hardly count, of Police Officers who could barely read or write.

  None but the stoniest-hearted could object to a proposal to provide homes for orphaned and abandoned children. And having accepted that, and the need for a school in every village, it would have been irrational to complain about the Stamp Act which would provide the necessary money.

  Then came a law which indicated to the weather-wise which way the wind was about to blow. It freed serfs’ sons from conscription to the army. They were to stay at home and produce instead of scrambling into uniform and eating at public expense. That law sounded reasonable in view of the economic situation; Denmark was at peace and could manage with a smaller army; but it touched a sensitive and wary nerve; serfs were property and if one law concerning them could be forced through, so might others, more destructive.

  There were other things to talk about.

  One of Struensee’s first moves had been to recall from exile Count Enevold Brandt who had been sent into exile for striking Count Conrad Holcke in the King’s presence. Holcke left Court, Brandt was re-established and made a member of the Council where he always sided with the man whom he regarded as responsible for his recall, Struensee.

  Struensee had moved into place as first favorite. The King referred everything to him: “Struensee knows what I wish. Struensee knows what he is about. I agree with Struensee.” And the Queen, who had always held aloof from the clique of former favorites, treated this one differently.

  (And we know why, the critics said. She is English and all the moves so far made have been toward the English pattern!)

  Count Holmstrupp was seriously paying court to the Queen’s newest lady-in-waiting. She was Amalia von Dannecker, seventh child, third daughter of old Count Dannecker whom poverty, age and infirmity had kept from Court for twenty years. He was a violent old man, aghast when he learned that the Queen approved of a possible match which, if it came about, would relate a serf’s son, a page of the backstairs, to half the noble families
in Denmark. All the old count’s children, poor, good-looking and charming had made advantageous marriages...

  In Denmark spring was as brief as winter. The snow melted, the icicles dripped and vanished and the trees put out their green. Summer, like winter, could make a great stride in a single day.

  The last day of April in the year 1770 was such a day and Caroline went riding with Struensee. They rode often, but seldom alone; Count von Bulow, Baron Schimmelmann, even Prince Frederick, were anxious to ride with her, to admire her horsemanship and to display their own. This afternoon, by sheer chance, they were alone; and to each of them the situation was both welcome and unwelcome.

  The thing that had moved in her, last September, she said—This is the man with whom I could be one; oh, if only he had been King of Denmark;—had never slept again. She had reached the point, long ago, before Christmas, when if he entered a crowded room in which she stood with her back to the door, she knew, not in any ordinary way, but in the marrow of her bones. She could hear his voice in another room, in a corridor, on a stairway, and melt with longing. When, as frequently happened, he stood close to her and talked to her directly, she was afraid to look at him and often had no idea of what he had said or of what she had replied. She was hopelessly, helplessly infatuated.

  Struensee was in a little better case, but he had put up more resistance; he took a rational stand; a woman was a woman; nature, the life force, intent only upon the business of propagation had arranged—probably on a chemical basis—that this one should attract, this repel. But that was not the whole truth; blood called to blood, bone to bone, mind to mind. Often, when he was obliged to stand by her, he was compelled to look away, and afterward hardly knew what he had said. There was between them—and it was not a romantic simile—the same attraction as that which exists between a magnet and iron filings. Irresistible; but it must be resisted.