Death of a Dowager

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  One by one, we kissed the hand of our sovereign. Again, I was struck by the way that corpulence had distorted those features of his once acclaimed for their rare beauty. His eyes were rheumy, his complexion marred by blotches, and his false teeth sat poorly in his mouth. As I had observed earlier, the Marchioness was every bit as corpulent as her companion. Peering out from the pillows of flesh on her face, her eyes glittered with an acquisitional nature that caused me to shrink back involuntarily in self-protection. The hairs rose up on the back of my neck.

  One glance past Lady Conyngham told me that the Ingrams were still shocked by this unexpected turn of events. The Dowager’s body trembled with suppressed emotion, and her ostrich feathers danced as a result of her quaking. However, her sister-in-law, Lady Grainger, harbored a secret smile, as though she thought this occurrence quite fitting.

  “What a pleasure to meet one of my own kind,” sighed the King, directing his greeting to Mr. Douglas. “Oh, how I miss my days of soldiering! Such glorious times we had on the battlefield.”

  None of us dared look one another in the eye.

  It was common knowledge that our King had never been in combat. His father had expressly forbade it, but that didn’t stop George IV from claiming that he had served as a warrior. Prinny’s so-called military service was one of his grand illusions, a manufactured résumé he persisted in buffing to a high shine. His fantasies were played out in his affection for designing uniforms and in wearing that curious assortment of medals and awards on his chest. They clanked and clanged, but signified nothing.

  “You also remember Lance Corporal Douglas’s sister, Mrs. Captain Augustus Brayton, of course. Her husband serves you at a posting in Bombay.”

  “Too right. One of my best men! Quite the horseman, isn’t he? Many times we’ve ridden side by side into the fray, swords drawn, steeds charging. Have you heard from the Captain lately?”

  Lucy responded in a manner wholly inconsistent with her usual self, a voice very flat and colorless. “Yes, Your Royal Highness. Thank you for asking. My husband has recovered from yet another attack of the sleeping sickness. His sixth, and each is a little worse than the one before. I shall be sure to write him and say you inquired about his health. It will mean so much to him to know that he’s been remembered by you.”

  “Of course I remember him. How could I forget? Those days in Brighton . . .”

  With a wild expression in her eyes, Lucy stiffened but said nothing. The King’s eyes moved past her and searched the crowd that gathered around us. His fleshy lips puckered as he mulled over his response. “Indeed, please tell him I send my regards. Remind him that I care deeply for all who serve in the colonies.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. He will be happy to know that he pleases you.”

  “Pray excuse me, ma’am.” The King paused, pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his eyes, and said, “But I find myself quite overcome with emotion when I think of the sacrifices we fighting men make so that our country can live in peace!” With this, he dabbed as if catching tears, although I could detect no moisture. Yet he certainly sounded sincere as he took Lucy’s hand in his. “Tell Captain Brayton that . . . I have not forgotten him. Promise me you will do that.”

  This was a message. What it really meant, I could not tell.

  “So I will, Sire. Might I add to that a note of comfort? Could I give him hope that he might come home soon?”

  “Oh, would that I could! But I am so terribly busy, and the weight of the nation demands so much from me, that I have decided such decisions are best left to my generals.” The King fanned himself with his handkerchief. The Marchioness set a hand on his forearm, possessively.

  “Sire, really, you care too much for all of us,” Lady Conyngham said. “It preys on your health.”

  Lucy did not move.

  “Of course, you miss your husband,” said the Marchioness with a dismissive nod. “What we women are forced to endure! So often the men we love are overburdened by the cares of their posts. I am quite undone when I think of how our dear sovereign handles so many, many intrusions on his time.”

  “Always thinking of me, my dearest Lady Elizabeth, aren’t you?” The King lifted the Marchioness’s hand to his lips and kissed it wetly. “No one could please me more.”

  Mr. Waverly cleared his throat and gestured toward me. “Your Highness, Mrs. Rochester is the brave woman I was telling you about.”

  “You are the one who bested the murderer?” The King looked me over carefully. “You are not much bigger than a wren! And yet, you acquitted yourself admirably. Waverly has told me all about your mission. You have avenged someone very dear to me. A girl who reminded me of my own Princess Charlotte.”

  Now, his eyes really did fill with tears. “Ah, Princess Charlotte! How I grieve for her! They told me she was doing well, she and her son both, so I went to sleep happy in the knowledge that the kingdom had an heir, a healthy boy—and that I was a grandfather! What a loss!” He broke into a sob. His handkerchief could scarcely keep up with his weeping.

  Whatever qualms I might have about the King’s morals, whatever distaste I felt at his gluttony, I could not ignore these raw emotions on display. Here stood a man still devastated by the loss of his daughter and grandchild four years earlier. But somehow the Regent had weathered the storm and righted himself.

  “I want you to join me in my box, Mrs. Rochester. Your friends are welcome to join us, too,” said the King.

  This was not an invitation. It was a command.

  The tension fled Lucy’s face and relief took its place. Edward’s posture slowly uncoiled, and the tight muscle along Mr. Douglas’s jaw slackened. The King’s issuance had a deleterious effect on the Ingrams, one that they could not hide, despite their valiant attempts to do so. A quick intake of breath by the Dowager Ingram signaled she was taken aback, while Blanche’s eyes narrowed and her lips pinched together tightly. Only Mary seemed unmoved, while Lady Grainger again fought a tiny smile that she immediately snuffed out.

  The King offered me his arm, and I took it, recognizing that he would be dependent upon me to support a portion of his great weight. As I struggled, he stumped along on his jeweled cane, and in this awkward manner, we hobbled our way to his box. By turns I felt giddy with excitement, worried with the responsibility for his person, and struck with wonder at the many ups and downs this evening had provided. Whereas I had been sure that the opera would be the most magnificent portion of the event, I now revised my opinion. Someday, I would tell Ned, and Ned’s children, about how I had been invited by the King himself to his box. That I had touched him, something so rare as to be unheard of.

  Mr. Waverly asked a footman to bring over a couple of chairs from Lucy’s box. The Marchioness decided how she wanted these arranged. Of course, we could do nothing until His Majesty sank down onto his oversized armchair. While waiting, Lucy, Mr. Douglas, Edward, and I stood at attention like a row of toy soldiers.

  “Come sit by me,” the King said to me, patting the chair to his left. After I took my seat, he leaned in toward me, his false teeth gleaming in the candlelight. Speaking so softly that only I could hear, he said, “I believe you have something of mine. Something very, very valuable.”

  Chapter 12

  “Did you read my letters to Pansy Biltmore?”

  Up close, I observed that King George IV’s eyes were blurry, and his expensive chypre perfume could not disguise the fumes of his excessive drinking. Although his gaze was imperious, his wig threatened to slip off his head. Various food stains marred his lace ascot. Soiled and tired, he struck me as unspeakably sad. His unkempt appearance seemed totally at odds with his position. While he leaned toward me, the Marchioness busied herself piling choice tidbits onto a plate for him.

  “Letters to Pansy Biltmore,” I repeated, hoping to buy time. I had not expected for him to know these were in my possession. But
it should not have surprised me. After all, his minions had been charged with rounding up his love letters.

  “I sent Waverly to retrieve them after her daughter died. He was told that you are the one who packed up poor Selina’s things. Waverly says you are a bright little minx. He believes they are in your possession. Is that right?”

  “Only one.” I could not bring myself to lie. “The others I burned. My intention had been to destroy them all, but my activities were interrupted.”

  “As I recall, ah, one of their number illuminates a rather damaging aspect of my private life. Of course, one might postulate that a king has no private life. There is that argument. It could be made honestly.”

  I said nothing. That seemed the wisest course. From the corner of my eyes, I noticed patrons in other boxes pointing at us, taking note of our conversation and the private nature of our talk. The Marchioness passed him the plate, but her attention seemed directed elsewhere, to the procurement of more claret.

  “Do you still possess the letter to which I am referring?” the King inquired.

  “I do,” I said, and my stomach twisted into a hard lump. In my excitement at meeting George IV and in the aftermath of the Ingrams’ insult, my worries about the letter had slipped my mind. Now I chided myself. How could I have been so foolish? Of course the King did not truly want to talk to me to commend me for my bravery. He wanted a chance to regain that which he’d given away: His deepest secret. A record of his marriage to Maria Fitzherbert.

  “And what do you plan to do with it?”

  “I have no plans for it.” My mouth was so dry, my lips caught on my teeth.

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “There are those who would give a great deal to possess that letter. Those who long to have power over me.”

  “Yes. So I have heard.” Why, I wondered, did he not demand that I return it?

  “Waverly thinks highly of you.” He drummed his thumb against his chair, allowing the huge ring he wore to clack rhythmically.

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “He says you can be trusted, and I have taken note of the fact that you have asked us for nothing. Although you could have. Others have.”

  I pondered this. I have never been fond of obfuscation. Plain speaking cuts to the core of the matter, establishes trust, and assures all parties that nothing is amiss. I watched the Marchioness fill another goblet of wine for the King.

  “Why should I? There is nothing that I need. If the occasion should develop, I would come to you as any one of your subjects approaches her sovereign. Empty-handed and with a hopeful heart.”

  For the first time, he showed his humanity. His face nearly crumpled with relief, and I daresay with vulnerability. No longer did I gaze upon a king; I felt I stared into the soul of a man. I saw his heartache, his failures, and his frailty. Out of respect, I looked away and down, so that my eyes met those of nearly everyone in the theater. Patrons on the first floor and in all the upper tiers were gazing at me curiously.

  This was exactly the sort of inspection I had ardently hoped to avoid!

  “Sire—” I was interrupted when the vast theater curtains began their slow parting, and the orchestra commenced the opening strains of the second act.

  Our private conversation was clearly ended. The Marchioness plucked at the King’s sleeve. Taking advantage of the distraction, I looked over at Mr. Waverly. His gaze was steady, bequeathing me a certain comfort. He was a man to trust, and as I watched him, he raised his chin slightly and mouthed the word, “Later.”

  Over the course of the evening, the King drank quantities of claret that would have staggered a horse. Lady Elizabeth matched his tippling glass for glass. Nor did they lack for foodstuffs. I had thought Lucy’s basket a bounty, but the King’s box was a constant parade of servers bringing a variety of cheeses, sliced meats, sweet breads, cakes, and other dainties. Lady Elizabeth titrated a few drops from an amber-colored bottle into the King’s glass of claret. “For your pain, Sire. I know how you suffer!”

  “Oh, my angel,” he said with slurred speech. “My treasure. Everything you do pleases me so. Dear, dear, Elizabeth. You care so deeply for me!”

  The liquid was laudanum; the label said as much.

  I caught Lucy’s eye, and she did not speak, but I knew exactly what she was thinking: How can he be drinking so much wine and taking laudanum and yet function?

  Paying attention to the stage challenged me, as I believe it also taxed the concentration of others in my party. We were all alert to the possibility that at any moment our King might well topple over and gasp his last. Yet the man continued as though unaffected. Indeed, for the most part, the King chattered nonstop through the performance, whispering to and kissing Lady Elizabeth as the two of them held hands. I did my utmost to forget myself by attending to the heroic story of Tancredi. However, I would only just shut out the King’s antics when His Majesty would tap me on the shoulder to pontificate on some arcane point regarding the performance. His knowledge of history and setting astonished me, but I would have much preferred to have heard his asides later rather than in the midst of the singing. All in all, my sovereign managed to ruin the performance for me. When we stood for the final round of applause, I prayed that the chance had come to pick up my wrap, say our good-byes, and leave.

  However, that proved impossible, because the King decided to stay for the pantomimes that followed. Since he wasn’t going anywhere, none of us could leave, either. One glance at the faces of Lucy, Edward, and Mr. Douglas let me know that they were as tired as I. The King could not have missed our exhaustion, as he yawned in tandem with Edward, but he settled his overfed self into his overstuffed chair and proceeded to drink more wine. At this point, we were more like captives than guests. A self-satisfied glimmer in his eyes told me that he reveled in this petty power. Lucy later told me stories about levees where people were nearly dead on their feet, hoping for our ruler to end the festivities—but the night went on and on until the next day. “He seems to enjoy knowing that others are discomforted,” she explained.

  I wished with all my heart that I had never come to his attention.

  Much of the crowd took their leave. The luster had worn off the evening, and our surroundings had lost their appeal. Soot clung to every surface as the tabletop candles burned down to stubs. Globs of wax had melted and fallen from the candles in the chandeliers overhead. So much beer had been spilled on the main floor that a sharp yeasty fragrance thickened the air.

  Oh, how I wished for the sweet, fresh scents of the heather fields surrounding Ferndean!

  Chapter 13

  “I still don’t understand why Lucy evidenced such distress,” I told my husband when we were alone in our room and snug in our bed with the eiderdown coverlet pulled over us. After looking in on Ned and Adèle, I had been more than ready to retire. “Lady Ingram greeted Lucy without warmth but respectfully. The slight she dealt me is my burden and mine alone.”

  Edward sighed and rubbed his forehead. “My dear innocent wife. The customs of the social set hold no allegiance with rationality. Conflate the Dowager’s dismissal with a stain, one that creeps outward and taints its surrounds. So, too, did her rejection of you ripple outward to include Lucy.”

  “And what of it? Lucy has friends, alliances, and those who admire her. Her brother told us of her prowess as a society hostess.”

  Edward moved closer to kiss my forehead, my nose, and my lips. The crisply ironed pillow slips cracked beneath him. “The Dowager’s slur was so outrageous, so public, that tongues will wag all over London.”

  “But the King invited us to sit with him. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “How can I explain this? Let me think. All right. When you were a schoolgirl, did you ever have peers who acted properly in front of the teacher but quite differently behind her back? It is thus. The ton must revere the King if they wish to benefit from
his favor, but beyond the peerages he can confer, beyond the alliances such as marriages to minor royals and positions in his household, he means very little to them. The fact that he was attentive to you incites their curiosity. His approval caught their attention. But their world is a shadowy place. Each one in it rises up at the expense of his friend. They would rather have reason to look down their noses at you—and Lucy—than to admire you. Society will happily assume that Lucy deserved Lady Ingram’s disapproval, and they will shun her. Worse yet, they will shun Evans when he arrives.”

  “Ah!” My breath quickened as the understanding dawned. Lucy’s concern was for Evans. All the child needed from her was her love and her protection, but she truly believed that her greatest gift would be launching him as a part of the ten thousand.

  “If he is accepted, his illegitimacy won’t matter. Doors will open for him. He will be offered a berth at the best schools. Friends of the better sort will be his. Oh, Jane, I know that you and I recognize the insubstantial nature of these benefits. We both prefer to look deep into a person’s heart rather than judge them by their exterior or their background. But make no mistake, such advantages have value.”

  I pondered this. “And now because of me,” I said, “Evans might be shunned.”

  But Edward had already fallen fast asleep.

  I untangled myself from my husband’s arms, slipped out from the many layers of covers, and went to sit on the window seat, where I could gaze out on the silhouette of London after dark. Here and there a gaslight or candle lit a window. The night watchman walked up and down the streets, swinging his lantern. This bustling hub was the Queen of the Universe, and as such, she never slept. Not entirely. At any time of night, one could hear the muffled clatter of horse hooves, the hoots of laughter, and faint strains of music. The ton sampled all of life’s pleasures, living with enormous gusto, determined to wring the most out of every encounter. As I closed my eyes, and rested my head on my forearms, I imagined people talking. About me. About Lucy. About Evans.