“Has it always been his way?”
Brimsley thought back over the past few years. “For a time. Yes.”
“But why? He does not seem shy with people. He has no stutter. His social graces are intact. He has a nice smile. He is tall and strong and handsome and smells like . . . a man.”
Brimsley smiled. She could have been describing Reynolds.
“It may have something to do with the doctor,” Brimsley thought aloud.
“Doctor? What doctor?”
Bloody. Hell. He had not meant to say that.
“I could be incorrect,” Brimsley said quickly. “In fact, I’m sure I misspoke.”
Charlotte leaned in, imperious and terrifying. Then she backed up and snapped at the rest of the servants. “Leave us!”
Brimsley took a step back, but she quelled him with a stare. “Not. You. Now tell me,” she said, “what doctor?”
Agatha
St. James’s Palace
Princess Augusta’s Sitting Room
8 November 1761
Agatha hated these teas.
The tea was exquisite. The biscuits divine. The company?
Far too royal.
One could not say no when the King’s mother extended an invitation. One stopped everything one was doing, pulled out one’s finest day dress, and headed out to the carriage posthaste.
The urgency of the whole thing provided one small favor, though. Lord Danbury had been about to pounce when the summons had arrived. So Agatha had managed to get out of doing that.
Even Danbury understood that the King’s mother took precedence.
“You are good to come,” Princess Augusta said once Agatha had settled into her chair.
“You are kind as always to invite me.”
Augusta got right to the point. “I am told you have visited with the Queen several times.”
Agatha accepted a teacup from a maid. She did not have to tell her how she took it. They knew this by now.
“We enjoy walking in the garden,” Agatha said.
Princess Augusta leaned forward. “So she is confiding in you.”
“She is.”
“Well?”
Agatha decided to lie. “She and the King are now very happy together.”
“Really.”
It was not a question, more of a statement of doubt.
“Indeed,” Agatha said, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “After a few strained first days, they enjoyed a wonderful honeymoon. And the coronation has only drawn them closer.”
“They did look lovely in the abbey,” Princess Augusta murmured.
“Oh, indeed. The very picture of bliss.” This, at least, was not a lie. Whatever faults the King and Queen had, no one could say they were not splendid actors. They had smiled and waved, held hands and kissed . . . If Agatha had not been forced to listen to all of Charlotte’s complaints, even she would have thought the royal couple madly in love.
“I hate him,” Charlotte had said just the day before. “He is infuriating. He makes everyone think he is so very polite, but it is a lie. He is a lying liar who . . .”
Dear God, save me, Agatha had thought.
“. . . lies,” Charlotte finally finished.
But Agatha knew what it was like to be in a loveless marriage, so she tried to be as supportive as she could. “You shall survive this,” she told Charlotte. “As long as you remain steadfast on—”
“Becoming with child,” Charlotte interrupted testily. “Please. I know.”
Agatha opened her mouth to say more, but Charlotte was not done.
“I am steadfast,” Charlotte said. “I am the very definition of steadfast. I am standhaft. I am inébranlable. I will be steadfast in a fourth language if you but find me an interpreter. It is all I do. All we do. Try to fill my womb with a baby.”
“I am so sorry,” Agatha said, for truly, it sounded dreadful.
“It is a nightmare.”
“It is difficult. I know. The act . . .” Agatha thought of Lord Danbury, pounding into her, over and over. It was awkward, it was uncomfortable, and God in heaven, it was mind-numbingly boring. She’d taken to composing her shopping lists and correspondence while he did his business.
Charlotte had to endure all that under the watchful gaze of an entire nation. Not literally, of course, but still. The Queen had power but no privacy. Her every move was remarked upon, dissected, turned inside out.
Agatha would never have traded places with her, and that was saying a lot. She was married to Herman Danbury, after all.
“I hate everything about him,” Charlotte said. “I hate his ridiculous face. I hate his voice. I hate the way he breathes.”
Breathes? Agatha arched her brows. Surely that was a bit much? “Your Majesty,” she said, “you can’t possibly—”
“It’s intolerable!” Charlotte burst out. “I can’t— He—” Huff huff puff huff puff puff.
Agatha stared in horror. The Queen was jerking around like she’d been possessed by marionette strings. “Your Majesty,” she asked carefully. “Are you unwell?”
“That is how he breathes!” Charlotte practically yelled.
That was definitely not how the King breathed, but Agatha was far too wise to make a point of this.
Just as she was too wise to share any of this with Princess Augusta.
“Is she showing any signs of being with child?” the Princess asked. “Do we think there will be a baby soon?”
Agatha forbore to point out that the King and Queen had been married for barely two months. Even if Charlotte had managed to get herself with child so quickly, there wouldn’t be any signs yet. Instead she said, “I have not noticed anything.”
“Keep your attention on it,” Princess Augusta commanded. “There is pressure.”
Now this was interesting. Agatha kept her face purposefully bland as she asked, “From Lord Bute?”
“It is none of your concern where the pressure comes from.”
Agatha waited. One, two . . .
“Yes, Lord Bute,” Princess Augusta said testily. “We need a baby. A royal baby is a cause for celebration for the commoners. For the entire nation. It is a sign of love to all and ensures the succession of the bloodline.”
“Of course,” Agatha said.
Princess Augusta leaned forward, but just an inch. “A baby seals the Great Experiment. We cannot fail.”
Agatha saw her opening. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “a ball would help with the Great Experiment?”
“A ball?”
“Yes. Lord Danbury and I would like to throw the first ball of the Season.”
This was not strictly true. Lord Danbury very much wanted to throw the first ball of the Season. Agatha thought it was a terrible idea. Danbury was sure everyone would attend and make merry now that he’d gained membership at White’s, but she knew better. Most of the ton—the old ton, that was—would decline an invitation from the Danburys. They would coo and fake their smiles and say things like, “We are so sorry to miss it,” and then they would gather somewhere else at the same time and laugh.
Agatha had warned him that Princess Augusta was unlikely to approve. His response had been so despondent that it had almost broken Agatha’s heart. He had looked so sad and small when he said, “They dangle joy in front of me and never let me grasp it.”
Agatha, despite all the ways she disliked her husband, had said to him, “You are every bit as good as they are.”