was that letter she had written to Frederick of Prussia. What tremendous impertinence! But by great good luck it had worked to her advantage, and he was delighted that she had written the letter. But in his secret thoughts he considered it was most indiscreet.
What a mercy that Charlotte would soon be leaving for England.
Now he silenced her with a look.
He said: ‘The proxy marriage will take place almost immediately; and after that there will be little delay in your departure. The coronation is to be the twenty-second of September; and you must have been married to him before that. So you see there is very little time.’
‘So soon …’ gasped Charlotte.
Her brother smiled at her. ‘Your bridegroom is, where his wedding is concerned, a very impatient man.’
*
The Duke came into Charlotte’s bedroom. She was wrapped in a robe more splendid than any she had had before; beneath it she was shivering, though not with cold.
‘Are you prepared?’ asked her brother sternly.
‘Yes,’ she answered.
He took her hand. ‘All is ready in the salon,’ he told her.
Flunkeys threw open the doors that they might pass through to that salon which was lighted by a thousand candles. The cost must have been great, thought Charlotte. But the petty Dukedom of Mecklenburg-Strelitz was allying itself with the throne of England, so it was not the time to count the cost of a few candles.
And this is all on account of me! thought Charlotte, struckmore than ever before by the awesomeness of the occasion and all that it meant. She saw the ceremonial velvet sofa on which she was to lie and beside it Mr Drummond, the representative of the King of England, who was to stand proxy for him in this preliminary ceremony.
The sight of the sofa filled her with dread because it brought with it a fresh realization of her responsibilities. This was not only leaving home, breaking up Christina’s romance, it was living intimately with a stranger, bearing his children, with the eyes of the world on her because she would be the mother of the next King of England.
The sofa represented a state bed, their royal bed which she would have to share with a strange young man and therein perform rites of which she was ignorant.
She was trembling; her legs had become stubborn and were refusing to carry her towards that symbolic couch. It was not too late even now. Suppose she refused to continue with this. Suppose she cried out that they must let Christina marry her Englishman for she had decided not to marry hers. Christina longed for marriage; she was breaking her heart because it was being denied her; whereas she, Charlotte, was realizing in this solemn moment that she did not wish to marry. She did not want to leave her home; she wanted to stay here … remain a child for a little longer, doing her lessons – Latin, history, geography – making maps with Madame de Grabow, mending, sewing. Why should she not protest that this was too sudden? There was something she suspected about this hurried wedding. Why so much haste? Was her bridegroom being hurried as she was? Was he in England crying out against the marriage as she was here? Why should she, who had once written a letter to Frederick the Great, hesitate now.
But it was because of that letter … This web was of her own making. But at least it showed that one had the power to direct one’s own life.
‘It is not too late.’ It was a message tapping out in her brain.
Her brother took her hand and pressed it impatiently.
‘Come, come. We are waiting for you.’
‘No …’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be a baby,’ hissed her brother angrily. ‘You are going to be Queen of England.’
Don’t be a baby. She was seventeen years old … old enough to leave her home, to marry, to bear children. It was the fate of all Princesses. All through history they had found themselves in positions like this. They were not expected to have any free will. They obeyed orders. They married for the good of
What a mercy that Charlotte would soon be leaving for England.
Now he silenced her with a look.
He said: ‘The proxy marriage will take place almost immediately; and after that there will be little delay in your departure. The coronation is to be the twenty-second of September; and you must have been married to him before that. So you see there is very little time.’
‘So soon …’ gasped Charlotte.
Her brother smiled at her. ‘Your bridegroom is, where his wedding is concerned, a very impatient man.’
*
The Duke came into Charlotte’s bedroom. She was wrapped in a robe more splendid than any she had had before; beneath it she was shivering, though not with cold.
‘Are you prepared?’ asked her brother sternly.
‘Yes,’ she answered.
He took her hand. ‘All is ready in the salon,’ he told her.
Flunkeys threw open the doors that they might pass through to that salon which was lighted by a thousand candles. The cost must have been great, thought Charlotte. But the petty Dukedom of Mecklenburg-Strelitz was allying itself with the throne of England, so it was not the time to count the cost of a few candles.
And this is all on account of me! thought Charlotte, struckmore than ever before by the awesomeness of the occasion and all that it meant. She saw the ceremonial velvet sofa on which she was to lie and beside it Mr Drummond, the representative of the King of England, who was to stand proxy for him in this preliminary ceremony.
The sight of the sofa filled her with dread because it brought with it a fresh realization of her responsibilities. This was not only leaving home, breaking up Christina’s romance, it was living intimately with a stranger, bearing his children, with the eyes of the world on her because she would be the mother of the next King of England.
The sofa represented a state bed, their royal bed which she would have to share with a strange young man and therein perform rites of which she was ignorant.
She was trembling; her legs had become stubborn and were refusing to carry her towards that symbolic couch. It was not too late even now. Suppose she refused to continue with this. Suppose she cried out that they must let Christina marry her Englishman for she had decided not to marry hers. Christina longed for marriage; she was breaking her heart because it was being denied her; whereas she, Charlotte, was realizing in this solemn moment that she did not wish to marry. She did not want to leave her home; she wanted to stay here … remain a child for a little longer, doing her lessons – Latin, history, geography – making maps with Madame de Grabow, mending, sewing. Why should she not protest that this was too sudden? There was something she suspected about this hurried wedding. Why so much haste? Was her bridegroom being hurried as she was? Was he in England crying out against the marriage as she was here? Why should she, who had once written a letter to Frederick the Great, hesitate now.
But it was because of that letter … This web was of her own making. But at least it showed that one had the power to direct one’s own life.
‘It is not too late.’ It was a message tapping out in her brain.
Her brother took her hand and pressed it impatiently.
‘Come, come. We are waiting for you.’
‘No …’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be a baby,’ hissed her brother angrily. ‘You are going to be Queen of England.’
Don’t be a baby. She was seventeen years old … old enough to leave her home, to marry, to bear children. It was the fate of all Princesses. All through history they had found themselves in positions like this. They were not expected to have any free will. They obeyed orders. They married for the good of
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