The Lost Queen: The Tragedy of a Royal Marriage

by Norah Lofts

  Dropping rather clumsily onto the stone seat that he could not see and feeling the chill through his best satin breeches he said, “What is the business?”

  “It seemed that you were in favor of Queen Caroline Matilda. That you believed her innocent and ill-used.”

  “I said that; as clearly as I could, in mixed company.”

  “Not mixed, Mr. Wraxall. Every Dane who was there this evening shared your sentiments and because of that can no longer live in Copenhagen on account of persecution and the threat of worse. They are Danes, loyal Danes, but they live in Altona so that, if the worst happens they can cross the river and be safe.”

  “They believe her to be innocent?”

  “That is why they are in Altona.”

  “Then why don’t they do something about it?”

  “But they are, Mr. Wraxall, they are. Ready and willing, eager and not ill-prepared. The difficulty is the lack of communication. The Queen has many friends whose one wish is to restore her. But they cannot move until they have ascertained her wishes. Access to her is made impossible for those who most wish it. And she is surrounded by spies.”

  “I got in easily enough.”

  “Ah yes. That is why we are here. The Queen’s friends are anxious to know whether you would be willing to use this ease of access in order to sound her out. To discover whether, if her friends took action, it would be welcome to her. The circumstances under which she left Denmark were not exactly conducive to goodwill...”

  “Are you a Dane?”

  “My nationality does not matter, Mr. Wraxall.”

  “Then it seems that I am supposed to ask that poor unfortunate woman a question calculated to raise the highest hopes, and on no better authority than a few words spoken me in the dark by a man whose name I don’t know, whose face I have never seen. Preposterous!”

  “You are hasty,” the man said. “In coal mines men take a little bird in a cage, to test for foul air. I am that little bird. I was sent to test your feeling. Naturally before a word was said to her, you would be given proof of the integrity—and of the importance of the men who move in this matter. You will see their faces, and know their names. But first must know whether you are willing to act as go-between, you think it over and perhaps meet me here on the evening after tomorrow?”

  “I have no need to think it over. Of course I will do it.” He was all agog, all afire. An errand after his own heart. An adventure; something dramatic to enter in the Memoirs he intended to write one day.

  “It could be dangerous,” the man said. “If you were suspected...For you a stab in the back: for her a poisoned dish. She has friends; but enemies, too, who would stop nothing. Her own sister is one of the most active of the spies. I think it would be as well to think it over.”

  “I have said that I will undertake it. If I thought for a year I should be of the same mind.”

  “Very well. Then if you will give me your word of honor, as an English gentleman, to hold their identities secret, I will arrange a meeting between you and those most involved.”

  “I can only give you Nicolas Wraxall’s word. It has never yet been questioned.”

  “You will be visited,” the man said. “Tomorrow morning, at eleven o’clock, if that is a convenient hour for you.”

  “I will make it convenient.”

  “Then I will say goodnight, Mr. Wraxall; and I beg you, careful. There is rather more risk involved than you realize.”

  The next morning Wraxall was called upon by two gentlemen Herr Hutten and Herr Bucer, the serving boy said. In the privacy of his room, with the door closed, they revealed themselves; one was Count von Bulow, formerly Her Majesty’s Master of Horse; the other was young Baron Schimmelmann. They talked for two hours—of their own imprisonment during the crisis, the treatment that had made them take refuge in Altona, the growing discontent in Denmark where people were beginning to realize what Struensee had given them and the new government taken away, the situation between the Prince Regent and his mother which amounted to nothing less than civil war, being fought out within the walls of the Council Chamber. Nine out of ten people in Denmark, they said, would be heartily glad to welcome back the Queen and see her installed as Regent, the King being incompetent and the Crown Prince a minor.

  The time had come, they both said, ripe for action; but before any action could be taken the Queen must be consulted. And also her brother, George of England. There had been no open breach with England, but trade had suffered. If the King of England would give his blessing to the plot to restore his sister to the throne from which she should never have been removed, the hands of the conspirators would be enormously strengthened.

  “I will return to Zell immediately and sound out Her Majesty,” Wraxall said, eager to be on his way. “A simple word, yes or no, initialed by me and sent to this inn, addressed to Heir Hutten, will serve? Good. Then I will speed back to England and test the ground there.”

  Count von Bulow, glad of the wholehearted co-operation, nonetheless felt a little uneasy. English; hasty; rash. But Wraxall’s next words gave evidence of something behind the apparent carelessness.

  “I shall need,” he said, “something in writing. Something to prove to her that this is not a silly jape.”

  They were both silent for a moment. Then Schimmelmann said,

  “At this point, Mr. Wraxall, it would be wise not to commit anything to paper. If you met with an accident...It would be far better if, between here and Zell, all was in the head and you wrote, when you were there, or even conveyed by word of mouth, what we have discussed.”

  “I know what you mean,” von Bulow said. He went to the writing table, worked the flint and tinder and lighted the thin candle. He held the sealing wax to the flame until it was bubbling and dripping and then dropped a great blob of it into the palm of his left hand, stamping it down with the seal ring which he wore on the third finger of his right. Then he peeled it off, bringing the scalded skin with it.

  “Show her that,” he said. “She will know it.”

  Wraxall took the frail wafer and placed it carefully between the pages of the book he had carried about with him for some time and never made much headway with, Sterne’s Sentimental Journey.

  Suddenly the title struck him as being profoundly apt. He was about to set out on a sentimental journey; more! he was about to take a hand in the making of history. He was elated; but at the back of his mind the ferrety curiosity twitched its nose.

  “The man,” he said, “who followed me last night and ranged this meeting. Who is he?” Count von Bulow said, “A reliable man; like us, entirely devoted to the Queen.”

  “He chooses to remain anonymous,” Baron Schimmelmann added. “But his warning about spies, about the Princess Augusta, about the danger to yourself and to Her Majesty if one word leaks, they come from the very source. He knows.”

  Mr. Wraxall looked at the gold watch, a present from all his father’s tenants upon his coming of age. Almost one o’clock.

  “I’ll be on my way,” he said. He’d miss dinner, but no matter, he could eat the flannelly veal for supper, somewhere thirty, with luck even forty, miles along the road that would take him back to Zell. He thought what a pity it was that this had cropped up when the evenings were beginning to draw in.

  As on former occasions he wrote his name in the book, and in the next column the nature of his business, “To present a letter.” He had not delayed in Hamburg to speak to Mr. Mathias about the French comedians, but Her Majesty would forgive him when she knew what he had come to tell her.

  He lingered for a moment, in his friendly, gossipy way, to exchange a few words with the official who kept the book, and learned, to his consternation that Princess Augusta had arrived unexpectedly that morning and intended to stay for three days.

  Communication could not be by word of mouth; it must be written down. He returned to his inn and devoted his literary talent to compressing a two-hour conversation into a few succinct sentences. He then, wit
h fresh wax, attached Count von Bulow’s seal to the page. He was about to fold it when he realized that this was intended for a woman’s perusal. And it might be opened in the presence of other people since the Queen was expecting a letter concerning French comedians; the contents would be a shock to her; she might exclaim, change color, even faint. So he took another sheet of paper and wrote on it that the contents of the other were so important and so secret that she must postpone reading it until she was alone. “It is particularly necessary to conceal it from H.R.H. the Princess Augusta.”

  He folded the two sheets in such a way that the warning would meet her eye as soon as the letter was opened.

  Next morning he received the expected invitation to dinner.

  When he was shown into the drawing room there were ten people there, awaiting the entrance of the Queen and the Princess. When they came Caroline, having said a few words of general greeting, went straight toward him and said, “Mr. Wraxall, I am glad to see you here again. You have a letter from Mr. Mathias.”

  He bowed and handed it to her, excitement tingling again in his blood. Caroline turned a little aside; read the top sheet, put the letter in her pocket and said, without looking at him, “Very satisfactory”; and in the most natural manner started a conversation with one of the company.

  At dinner the Queen and her sister sat together in two tall chairs midway along one side of the table; Wraxall was placed opposite. As the meal progressed he congratulated himself on having managed well. And the Queen, he thought, was a splendid conspirator. Then he realized that those who said that she was indiscreet had not misjudged her. As the cloth was drawn and the dessert brought in, she took the letter from her pocket, and holding it in her lap, read it carefully. He was so horrified that he lost track of what his neighbor was saying. But the Queen, reading words of such an explosive nature, paused several times and looked up and contributed some words to the conversation. Agonized he judged the proximity of those two chairs; about a foot between them, but both were large, with out-curving arms, so that there was considerable distance between the sisters. The Princess was getting on in years; some people grew longsighted as they aged. Had she? What a risk to take! What a witlessly rash thing to do! The pear with which Wraxall was rounding off another not very sumptuous meal tasted like turnip.

  Afterward everyone retired to the drawing room and stood about drinking coffee; then the royal ladies retired and Wraxall, still shaken, went back to his inn, prepared to wait for the Queen to make the next move. He imagined that she would send for him on some pretext the next day, and see him alone. And he would warn her, personally and very firmly. He removed his jacket and his neckcloth—damp as a result of his agitation—put on his dressing gown, poured himself a glass of brandy and made another assault on his book.

  He was soon disturbed, however. His room was just at the head of the stairs and he heard his own name, “Mr. Wraxall, an English gentleman...” a voice said. Abandoning Sterne for the twentieth time, Wraxall opened his door and saw at the foot of the stairs Baron Seckendorf whom he had lately seen in the castle drawing room.

  “I will dress, Your Excellency, and come down,” he said. He was agitated again. Discovered already?

  “No, no Mr. Wraxall. I must apologize for disturbing you. We spoke so much about the pedigree and performance of this horse that I forgot to ask the price. May I come up?”

  “If you don’t object to my room as well as my person being in some disarray…”

  Not surely the stab in the back. Not so soon. Nevertheless, Wraxall was aware that from the moment when he agreed to act as a go-between, he had stepped onto unknown, potentially dangerous territory. Having admitted his visitor he slammed the door and stood with his back to it, wary, ready for anything.

  “Her Majesty sent me,” Baron Seckendorf said, in a low voice. “Move from the door, Mr. Wraxall, there is an ear at every keyhole. She sent you this, her own personal seal.” He held it out, a pretty trinket; but that might be a device to distract attention. Without taking his eyes from Baron Seckendorf, Wraxall reached out his left hand.

  “You are cautious; rightly so. I assure you that Her Majesty trusts me absolutely. I must be brief. She bids me tell you that she has read your letter with great emotion and wishes to inform Count von Bulow that she is in full agreement and willing to cooperate in every way. She begs that, having communicated with him, you should go to England and endeavor to enlist her brother to her cause. She trusts you to keep her informed. But do not return openly to Zell. Go to the Sand Krug, a little posting inn on the edge of the forest. Present yourself as a French merchant; order roast duck for supper and pay for it with an English guinea. Her Majesty is grateful for the service you are doing her and begs you not to take any avoidable risk.”

  “To serve her is my pleasure,” Wraxall said.

  “We have talked long enough,” the Baron moved to the door, said in a low voice, “God speed you,” and then opening the door, changed his tone.

  “No horse is worth it. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  “A horse is worth what it will fetch. In my opinion you have missed a bargain.”

  “Augusta, excuse me for a short time. Baron Seckendorf is waiting for me in the library.”

  “Business? What a time to choose.” It was almost ten o’clock. Having made her comment upon the dilatory way this place was run, Augusta was disposed to be helpful. “If it concerns money, perhaps I could be of assistance.” She would dearly have loved to get her hands on the castle’s accounts and see where the money went. Not on food certainly; nor on clothes. The red silk dress which Caroline was wearing was one of those she had brought from Denmark.

  “I think it might embarrass Baron Seckendorf, Augusta. Poor man, he hates some of the things he has to say to me; he would find it more difficult in the presence of a third person.”

  “Wait a minute,” Augusta said. “Are you quite well? You look...feverish.”

  “It is nothing. A touch, no more, of my silly old complaint. Look...” She lifted the lace that bordered her sleeve and showed her arm, striped and blotched. “It may last a day, it may go off in an hour.” She knew the cause of this attack. Excitement and shock; the really astounding news from Denmark; the confirmation of her suspicion about Augusta; the need for haste, the need for cunning. “I shan’t be long,” she said and sped into the library where the Baron waited.

  “Did you find him?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I did, Your Majesty. I think he is a reliable man and will do his best for you.”

  “I am sure of it. I liked him from the first. Now how long do you think? Shall I be back in Denmark by Christmas?”

  This was a Caroline that he had never seen before; even the pace of her speech had changed. He said, reluctantly, because it was like dashing a child’s hopes:

  “That would be quite impossible. May I speak frankly?”

  “I thought you were always frank.”

  “Oh, about money? Yes, indeed. But this is a business of such magnitude...I wonder if Your Majesty quite realizes what is involved. You took your decision instantly. Others will be more cautious. Revolutions take time. I feel that Mr. Wraxall will make many journeys before His Majesty of England and your friends in Altona come to terms. It will take months, perhaps a year even.”

  “I was thinking of the children. Baron Seckendorf I thought I was resigned; that all I needed was patience—and faith, to sit out my time here. But when I read that letter and understood that I still had friends who believed in me; that I might see the children again and bring them up...” She had almost given herself away, about to say, As he would have wished. “...according to my own ideas; something seemed to snap, here,” she smacked her hand to her collarbone behind which her heart was thudding. “How I sat there at table and then talked to you over the coffee, I shall never know. Never.”

  For although the world was a bridge to be crossed, not built upon, a tunnel to be passed through, and although she still
believed that all was one, all was right in the end, when such a call sounded so clearly, so almost miraculously one saw that, in crossing the bridge, trudging through the tunnel one might make repairs, shoulder burdens. She would return to Denmark, educate, or re-educate her children, and rule as he would have done.

  She was still intensely aware of him; not as a dead man, some shamed bones, but as part of the experience of which she could never speak. On the day of his death, drowning in despair, she had been saved; and now, rotting away in idleness, she had been called back to service. To say—to even think—that this was his doing was silly, a putting into human terms something that could never be so expressed; but she had no doubt of whose hand had drawn the curtain aside, just a little, so that she might see and be comforted by a glimpse of what was beyond; and she had no doubt about this later revelation. Tilting the page in her lap, guarding it against Augusta’s sharp eye, she had read, and understood, her orders.

  And even on an earthly level, where words were available; everything fitted in. Mr. Wraxall, truly a gift from God; Mantel’s old grandmother at the Sand Krug, Mantel, Baron Seckendorf.

  Baron Seckendorf said, “Your Majesty must be very careful and always remember that there are those who would sooner see you dead than restored.”

  She said, “Oh, I know. I know my enemies by name. I shall be extremely careful.”

  He had asked permission to be frank; now he had to be brutal.

  “Your Majesty’s demeanor...forgive me...it shows a certain excitability; my really watchful eye...”