The Third George: (Georgian Series) (2 page)

And these ambitious rulers, thought Charlotte, were seeking their victories at the expense of the people of such poor little dukedoms as Mecklenburg-Strelitz.

She glanced at Christina. One must not be hard on Christina who after all was twenty-six years old and in love. One could not mix love and war and Charlotte supposed the first was a more inviting subject for thought than the second.

Charlotte had no reason to think of love, so she gave herself up to the contemplation of war and continued to ask herself what she could do about it.

There was one man who could stop this wicked waste, this pillage; who could by the stroke of pen and one word of command prevent his soldiers from laying waste villages, robbing churches and plundering the houses which stood on their routes. This was Frederick of Prussia, whom they called Frederick the Great.

But he would never listen to a sixteen-year-old girl. If she wrote to him her letter would never reach him. He would say she was a silly young creature. What if he complained to her brother? Then there would be trouble.

Yet, thought Charlotte, if I did nothing I should never be able to forget that woman’s face. Perhaps she was put in my path today for a purpose.

No, certainly she would never forgive herself if she did not take some action.

But what?

She found her attendant, Ida von Bülow, and her governess, Madame de Grabow, in her apartments. Ida was a frivolous girl, but the governess was a very distinguished lady indeed; she was now a widow and her father had been Mecklenburg’s ambassador at the Court of Vienna. She was so learned that she was known throughout Mecklenburg as the German Sappho; an ideal governess for the Princesses, approved of by both their mother, the Grand Duchess, and their brother, the Duke.

Madame de Grabow said: ‘News has reached us of King Frederick’s latest victory. I will show you on the map.’

The map was spread out on the schoolroom table, but Charlotte who loved maps almost as much as Madame de Grabow could find no pleasure in it today. She saw those delicately tinted areas as stricken villages, occupied by hopeless old men, women and children because the young ones were away from home fighting on the battlefields; she saw the desecrated churches, the desolate homesteads.

She did not speak of her emotions to Madame de Grabow, for she was sure that lady would heartily disapprove of what she intended to do, but as soon as she was in her bedchamber she called to Ida to bring her pen and ink; and when it was brought she settled down to write.

May it please your Majesty,

I am at a loss whether I should congratulate or condole with you on your late victory, since the same success which has covered you with laurels has overspread the country of Mecklenburg with desolation. I know, Sire, that it seems unbecoming in my sex, in this age of vicious refinement, to feel for one’s country, to lament the horrors of war, or wish for the return of peace. I know you may think it more properly my province to study the arts of pleasing, or to inspect subjects of a more domestic nature; but however unbecoming it may be in me, I cannot resist the desire of interceding for this unhappy people.

It was but a few years ago that this country wore the most pleasing aspect. The land was cultivated, the peasants were cheerful and the towns rich and gay. How they have changed! I am not an expert at description, nor can my fancy add any horrors to the picture; but surely even conquerors themselves would weep at the hideous change. The whole country, my dear country, is one frightful wasteland, presenting only objects to excite terror, pity and despair. There is no longer work for farmers and shepherds for they have become soldiers and help to ravage the soil they once cultivated. The towns are inhabited only by old men, women and children; while perhaps here and there a warrior, by wounds or loss of limbs rendered unfit for service, is left at his door, where little children hang around him, to ask the history of every wound, and grow themselves soldiers before they find strength for the field. But this were nothing, did we not feel the alternate insolence of either army as it happens to advance or retreat, in pursuing its campaigns. It is impossible indeed to express the confusion which they who call themselves our friends create, for even those from whom we expect relief only oppress us with new calamities. From your justice it is, therefore, Sir, that we hope redress; to you even children and women may complain, whose humanity stoops to the meanest petition and whose, power is capable of redressing the greatest wrong.

Your Majesty’s humble servant

Charlotte Sophia Mecklenburg-Strelitz

Charlotte’s usually pale cheeks were tinged with pink. Dare she send such a letter? If her mother knew, if her brother discovered, what would they say? They would be horrified. How dared she, a girl of sixteen, a girl of no account, write such a letter of reproach to King Frederick of Prussia. She was more or less telling him what he should do.

‘I will send it,’ Charlotte told herself fiercely. ‘For I shall despise myself for ever more if I do not.’

She sealed the letter and kept it in her secret pocket; and when the messenger next left with letters for Prussia she gave it into his hands to be put in no others than those of King Frederick.

Then began the misgivings; then the realization of what she had done.

She waited for the inevitable reverberations.

*

Charlotte folded the petticoat she had been mending and laid it
carefully on the table and, grimacing, picked up a gown from the pile of clothing which lay between her and Ida von Bülow.

Ida was aware of the Princess’s mood and thought she knew the reason for it. She was after all sixteen and must wonder often whether she would ever escape from the monotony of life here in the
schloss.
It was certainly dull, Ida conceded, and surely Charlotte must be wondering whether marriage would ever rescue her from it.

But what chance would she ever have? The dukedom of which her brother had become reigning sovereign eight years ago was an insignificant one – about one hundred and twenty miles in length and thirty in breadth – and since the war it had become more impoverished than ever. No, Charlotte’s chances were small. She was not even handsome, but rather what kindly people called ‘homely’. Though her expression was pleasant, and a lively intelligence lightened her face she was so pale as to be colourless; small and thin, she entirely lacked that fleshy rotundity so necessary to Teutonic beauty; her nose was too flat and her mouth so large that had she possessed the most perfect features otherwise, it would have prevented any claim to beauty.

Charlotte held up the gown. ‘There is not much life left in it,’ she declared. ‘I may patch the skirt but I shall be out at the elbows the next time I wear it.’

‘A waste of time, Princess,’ agreed Ida.

‘But,’ went on Charlotte, smiling a little wickedly and imitating Madame de Grabow’s voice to the life, ‘at least I am occupied. Idle hands are the outward manifestation of an idle mind.’

Ida laughed but Charlotte went on judiciously: ‘Madame de Grabow is right. I am indeed fortunate that she should be my governess.’

‘Very fortunate.’

‘I must always remember it. Oh dear, I don’t think I can do any more with this gown. If only …’

‘You will not get a new one until the war is over.’

The war. She daren’t think of it. What would he say when he received her letter? Whenever the door opened she started, expecting to see a page there summoning her to her mother … or worse still to her brother.

Ida must be regarding her curiously so she threw aside the gown and picked up a piece of embroidery. ‘That’s better. It’s a
pretty pattern. Don’t you agree, Ida? But of course you always agree. Ida, how deeply do you think my sister is in love?’

Ida gave a spurt of merriment. ‘She couldn’t be in deeper.’

‘Do you think she will be allowed to marry the gentleman?’

Ida thought it likely. Christina was ten years older than Charlotte. If she did not find a husband now she never would; and an English duke would not be an impossible match. The daughter of a minor German duke could not hope for European royalty. Yes, Ida thought an English duke might do very nicely.

‘I do hope so, Ida,’ said Charlotte fervently. ‘Although I should miss her. She would go to England.’

‘And they are our allies in the war …’

Charlotte wanted to put her fingers into her ears. Phrases from that most impertinent letter kept ringing in her head. Sometimes she would awake in the night and hear them. Did I really write that? Did I? And did I really send it to the King of Prussia?

‘I heard it was very grand at the English Court,’ she said quickly. ‘And Christina would of course go to Court. Ida, perhaps it is a good thing that we are a poor little dukedom because that means that no great king would ever ask for our hands … and therefore Christina may be allowed to marry her duke. Be careful. Here she comes.’

The Princess Christina came into the apartment. There was a resemblance between them, but she was more handsome than Charlotte and being in love had transformed her.

‘What news?’ cried Charlotte.

‘News of what?’ demanded Christina. ‘The war …’

‘No, no, no! Of you … and your duke.’

‘What news should there be?’

‘That Mamma and our brother have given their consent to your marriage.’

‘Not yet, but …’

‘They will,’ said Charlotte. ‘They must. Christina, when you are an English duchess will you invite me to visit you in England?’

‘You may be sure I shall.’

‘I wonder what it’s like there. I wonder if all the stories we hear of it are true.’

‘Some are.’ Christina was knowledgeable through conversations
with her lover. ‘The new King is very young – only twenty or so. And the people have long been waiting for the old one to die. They believe everything will be different now he is gone. It will be a change for the better for the King is a very good young man … modest and virtuous. Unusual qualities for a king.’

Charlotte shuddered, thinking of that other king whom she could not get out of her mind.

‘I have heard manners are free and easy at the English Court,’ said Ida.

‘Oh, the English!’ laughed Christina. ‘They are not so … disciplined as we are. If they disapprove of the royal family they don’t hesitate to say so.’

‘That is good,’ said Charlotte with vehemence.

‘Charlotte!’

‘I … I believe that people should speak their minds.’

‘But to kings!’

‘Yes, to kings.’

Christina went on: ‘Oh, yes, there are lampoons and songs always being circulated. The people get together in the coffee and chocolate houses. They are all over the town, these houses … and people go there to drink coffee and chocolate and stronger things and talk … and talk …’

Madame de Grabow came into the room.

She said: ‘I have just come from the Grand Duchess. I have orders to prepare us to leave for Pyrmont to take the waters.’

Christina looked a little downcast, guessing this would mean a temporary separation from her duke.

Charlotte, watching her, thought wistfully: I wonder if I shall ever have a lover. I wonder if I shall ever marry.

‘Come,’ said the efficient Madame de Grabow, ‘there is much to do. The Grand Duchess is anxious to leave without delay.’

*

It was pleasant at Pyrmont. The Grand Duchess took her daughters to the pump rooms and it was certain that they benefited by the change. They lived simply, staying at a nearby country house and partaking in the life of the place – like any noble family on holiday.

Christina was a little sad, regretting the parting from her lover who had stayed in Mecklenburg, for he had no excuse for following them there; but she confided to Charlotte that she was very
hopeful that soon after their return the betrothal would be announced.

In the rooms where they mingled with other visitors after taking the waters a Colonel Graeme was presented to them. He was a charming Scotsman who was, the Grand Duchess was informed, a great friend of Lord Bute who in his turn was a close friend of the King and the Princess Dowager of England.

Colonel Graeme was very courteous and made a point of speaking to Charlotte. In fact he seemed very interested in Charlotte who was surprised that her mother allowed him to spend so much time with her.

‘It can scarcely be that he has fallen in love with you,’ cried Christina.

That made Charlotte laugh. ‘You think of nothing but love. No. He is just a nice old gentleman who likes to talk.’

And how he talked! It was all about England. He seemed determined to make her
see
St James’s and Kensington, Hampton and Kew; but chiefly he talked of the young King.

‘He is not only extremely handsome,’ he told Charlotte, ‘but
good.
I can tell you that there was great rejoicing when he came to the throne. We looked forward to a time of prosperity, for the King cares, as few have before him, for the good of his people.’

‘He sounds a very worthy king,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘Is he … warlike?’

Colonel Graeme looked at her oddly and she flushed. She said quickly: ‘I hate war. You will see what it has done to our country. But kings seem to take to it mightily. I was wondering whether the King of England enjoys going to war.’

‘Indeed he does not,’ replied Colonel Graeme. ‘The King of England is opposed to war. He hates suffering of any sort. He wants to see his subjects happily at peace. When his father, the Prince of Wales, died, he was deeply affected. He scarcely touched food for days and we feared for his health. He loved his father; but when two gardeners fell off a ladder in the gardens at Kew he was upset for days.’