Queen Charlotte

Charlotte

Kew Palace

The King’s Bedchamber

30 October 1818

It was not a long distance from Buckingham House to Kew, but to Charlotte, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, it felt as if she were traveling to an entirely different planet.

She did not make this journey as often as she ought. It hurt to see George. It hurt her heart. It hurt her bones. It hurt her soul. She had spent so many years watching him slowly whisper away, and now . . .

He did not recognize her. Perhaps once in the past year she had been able to reach him. Twice in the year before that. It was heartbreaking. To have that fleeting connection, that brief moment when she could remember Just George and be Just Charlotte.

The joy of it wasn’t worth the pain that inevitably followed, when he returned to his madness, with his heavens and stars and equations. And more lately, his absolute nonsense. She’d used to be able to understand what he said, even if it made little sense. But now it was usually just gibberish.

Her George was a ghost, just waiting to die.

But today she had important news. And she would tell it to him, whether he heard her or not. He was her love, and he would always be her love. She owed him this.

Charlotte entered his room to find him writing on the walls, as he often did. An attendant sat in the corner. He’d been instructed to let George draw whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted.

It made him happy. And that was what Charlotte wanted most. For him to be happy.

“You may go,” she said to the attendant.

He gave her a look that said, Are you certain? George did sometimes have difficult outbursts.

She gave him a look that said, I am your Queen. Get out.

He got out.

“George,” Charlotte said once the attendant had shut the door behind him.

George didn’t turn around, but he did wave his hand as if shooing her away. “Do not bother me in the sky.”

“George, it is me. It is your Charlotte.”

Still, he ignored her, mumbling words she could not make out.

“I have some news, George. Wonderful news.” She stepped toward him. “George? George?”

It was as if she weren’t there. He kept mumbling and writing on the wall, and Charlotte wondered if she was the ghost, just waiting to die.

She looked at his bed. It was not the same one from his room in Buckingham House, but it was still a bed. And she thought— Maybe, just maybe . . .

She got down on her knees, clearing her throat loudly as she did so.

He looked over and frowned.

She lay on her back and scooted under, not an easy feat in her gown. “Just George?” she called out. “Farmer George?”

She waited, holding her breath. And then there he was, peering under the bed at her.

“Come,” she said with a smile. “Hide from the heavens with me.”

He pondered her request for a brief moment, gave a little nod, and joined her. “Charlotte!” he said, with the greatest delight. “Why, hello.”

“Hello, George.” She didn’t cry, because she did not cry. But her eyes felt rather odd.

“It is quiet here,” he said.

“George,” she said, “we have succeeded. Our son Edward has married, and his wife is with child.”

“Edward is going to be a father?”

“Yes. Your line will live on.”

“Our line,” he reminded her.

“Our line,” she repeated.

And then, very sweetly, he kissed her. It tasted like the past. It tasted like her very heart.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

She burst out laughing. But then he looked at her with an expression she rarely saw on his face anymore. Sober, serious, but still full of love.

“You did not go over the wall,” he said.

She smiled. “No, George. I did not go over the wall.”