He came in and hovered, portrait of a young man, framed in the white and gold of the posts and canopy of the bed. It occurred to her that he, also, might feel a trifle shy, a little apprehensive about those intimacies. She offered him a tentative smile.
“You’re very pretty,” he said, much as he had said it at Roskilde.
“And you are very handsome.”
“The snow held off,” he said.
“Yes, it was a beautiful day. And in every respect, a splendid wedding.”
He appeared to swallow something and with jerky movements went about quenching candles until only one was left, on his side of the bed.
Then the fog closed in.
Louise had been right to disbelieve Alice. Mamma had been nearer the mark, though indignities would have been a more accurate word. He fell upon her rather as a starving dog might fall upon a hunk of meat; he used his teeth on her and his ruthless hands. One might have imagined that she had in some way angered him; but how? She bore it without a word or sound of protest, though there was some hurt involved. But not what Alice had said. Then, all at once he made what seemed to be a sound of disgust and flung himself away from her, rolled over, said nothing when she wished him goodnight, and within two minutes was asleep; she knew by the change in his breathing.
So now, here she was, a married woman, in bed with her husband, with a fog and a moat between what she had been and what she was, and would in future be. Her mind was confused and her body felt as though it had been involved in an accident. Not one kind word, after the compliment to her looks, not a gentle touch. And most troubling of all, she felt that she had in some way displeased him. Of the oneness, of the one flesh there was no sign at all, except that hers was his in the sense that he could do what he liked to it.
The sentry’s boots sounded again on the stones, and presently the clock struck five.
“It is,” Christian said, “a lump of frozen codfish and I’ll be thrice damned if I go near her again.” There had been another feast—there were to be four in all—and more dancing, of shorter duration, and it was not yet midnight.
Knut had already deduced that all was not quite well. Christian had strutted and boasted just a shade too much, used coarse gloating expressions a little too deliberately when talking to him, Brandt and Holcke, yet been short and irritable with everyone else; and the Queen, though more thickly painted and powdered than yesterday, and with that translucent look about her eyes which women wore after an almost sleepless night, lacked the inwardly satisfied, indolent, triumphant air which all but the most hardened old prostitutes wore afterward—for a short time, at least. Once or twice during the evening’s festivities he had seen an almost pensive look on her face.
He said, quite sternly, “It is far too soon to judge. Virginity is an overrated condition. You took that hurdle?”
“I was superb. Never better. A dead woman would have responded,” Christian said untruthfully.
It was possible; straight from a period of abstention, almost—thanks to Knut—dead sober, and the girl so delectable, Christian might have performed well. But Knut could not be sure; he had shared most of Christian’s jaunts and talk in bawdy houses was free and brutally frank; there had been rumors of...oddities which, because they affronted Knut’s peasant normality and his unpeasant squeamishness, he chose not to think of much.
“You must make allowances,” he said. “She is very young, and ignorant. Within a month...”
“Don’t talk like a fool! How should you know? I know. And I know what’s wrong with her. She has the spleen—that English disease that comes of drinking too much tea.”
That was brilliant, one of the flashes that proved how clever he was. Knut’s suspicions deepened.
“Spleen, whatever that may be, and cold blood may go together for all I know,” he said in his most agreeable manner. “In that case you have my commiserations.” He then used a phrase which he had only used in private to Christian three or four times in the course of their long association. And when he did it always gave Christian a jolt. “Your Majesty should remember that this marriage was not made for pleasure. You need, Denmark needs, an heir.”
And I need, my reputation needs, that this should be a successful marriage, outwardly, at least.
Christian’s memory of last night’s failure, of other failures, gnawed away. “A Princess, not one of your hired women...” Juliana couldn’t know, of course, nobody knew; but hired women did what they were hired to do. And one maddening aspect of the situation was that he had not been deterred by her being a Princess; he had deliberately ignored that, done his best to humiliate her. In that, also, he knew he had failed; she had wished him goodnight as sweetly and composedly as though...He realized suddenly that he hated her.
“Denmark,” he said sullenly, “can make do with Frederick.”
“That I had overlooked,” Knut said.
“I don’t care about Denmark,” Christian said. “I am not going to bed down with a lump of cold codfish for the sake of Denmark. I shall be dead anyway.”
“That is true. But there are the years between. No child yet? Her mother bore nine; her brother’s wife was pregnant within three months and has been pregnant, at due intervals, ever since. The Queen of Denmark, one of this prolific family, has no child—she has the spleen instead. Oh, the pity of it. And the gossip and the speculation. And in the end, that sad little comment—Christian VII died without issue.”
Christian, who had been pacing about his bedroom, sat down in a chair and looked at his one true friend with a defeated expression. Both his heads had been troublesome all day, but they had been together. Now one, with a wrench, leaned away.
“Knut, if I didn’t know that you were my friend, my oldest, my one true friend, I should think you were the Devil.”
“How old-fashioned,” Knut said lightly. “On a par,” he said, “with the idea that a man should love his wife, whereas every reasonable man knows that a man’s duty is to get his wife with child, to be civil to her in public and in private avoid any scandal which might cause her distress.”
One head said, “Absolutely right. Trust Knut to put the matter into a nutshell.” The other said, “Oh God! Oh God!”
COPENHAGEN; NOVEMBER 1766—JUNE 1767
Caroline’s first winter in Denmark was the coldest ever known. Even the sea froze and it was possible to cross into Sweden on foot or by sledge.
It was also a very gay winter, with balls and banquets, musical receptions and concerts and opera performances both in the Christiansborg palace and in the magnificent houses of the great families who entertained like princes.
She was young, hungry for life, eager to please and be pleased and she would have been happy but for Christian’s puzzling behavior; he seemed to have taken a grudge against her; it showed in small things: in the order that she was to speak Danish, even to her femme de chambre; that she was not to ride again in Count Bernstorff’s indoor riding school; in his loudly applauding any lines in a play which decried marriage.
They were small things and she persuaded herself that they were unimportant. Frau von Plessen agreed with the order against riding; “It is unwise for women who wish to become mothers.” Then why wasn’t England depopulated? Alice agreed with the ban on English, “The only way to pick up jabber is to talk jabber.” And in the applauding of derisory remarks about marriage, Christian was not alone—though he was always first.
She flung herself into the festivities and often enjoyed them. Christian seldom did; he was good neither as host nor as guest. He would start dancing a cotillion and then walk away, leaving seven other dancers at a loss. If he were bored with a play or an opera or a concert, he would get up and leave noisily, and then everything came to a standstill. Nobody seemed to resent this behavior, or to see anything odd in the fact that while demanding the most rigorous formality most of the time, he would go off into a corner or an alcove and laugh with his cronies, Holmstrupp, Brandt and Holcke, and slap them on the shoulder
and allow them to slap him.
In public he was always civil to her, civil but cool; and she resolutely kept up the façade, the pretense that all was well. She danced with great vigor, applauded any performance until her hands stung, launched intrepidly into Danish, the first to laugh at her own mistakes.
(She still wondered why Mamma had thought it unnecessary for her to learn Danish. She had once suggested it and Mamma had said, “All those who come in contact with you will speak German or French, in both of which you are proficient.” The Princess Dowager had not felt it incumbent upon her to explain that not knowing Danish Caroline would not understand servants’ gossip. She had once had the humiliation of overhearing herself referred to as “poor lady.” To her daughter she had tried to extend a frail protection from a similar experience.)
About the nights, with their pointless savagery, Caroline tried not to think; it was not more than once a week; and fortitude was a virtue.
It was January, February, March, and Knut was counting the time.
“It is four months,” he said to Christian. “What is wrong?”
“I told you. The English spleen.”
“The English,” Knut said seriously, “breed in considerable numbers.”
“Now, for God’s sake, don’t you begin to talk like an old woman, Knut,” Christian said, in a voice as nearly testy as he had ever used to his one true friend. “There’s my grandmother whining about seeing her great-grandchild before she dies: and Juliana, saying nothing but watching, watching. I can feel it. There’re too many women in this world, young and old.” He was on the verge of saying that he would be quite happy never to see a woman again, but even to say such a thing would be an infringement of the rules of the Knut had laid them down.
“You need, and Denmark needs, an heir.”
“I need? I don’t care who rules after me. I shall be dead. My duty is done. She’s a lump of cold codfish, with hair like an old man’s beard, but I’ve done my duty. Am I to blame if she’s a barren cow?”
The repetition of the claim to have done his duty increased Knut’s suspicions. He could have left the matter there; who ruled Denmark in the far future was not much concern of his; he would be dead too. But he had set his singularly stubborn mind on this being a successful marriage, so far as appearances went, and whatever he had set his mind on should be. And the thought that he was manipulating his puppets from behind the scenes was precious to him. He had before and he would again. There were aphrodisiacs...
Late in March Caroline learned that Alice’s information had been correct; and when, in April, her link with the moon snapped, she felt that Alice must be the first to know; a secret at first, until it was certainty.
Alice had pursued her usual tactics and finally arranged things to her liking. She was a humble femme de chambre, at the beck and call of, taking orders from, the Queen’s ladies, making way on any grand occasion for the official hairdresser; but she was always there, at the very end of the day, however long that day had lasted. Caroline had said, “I like Alice to brush my hair.” And after all the fussing and the ritual, there they were together, Alice wielding the brush which removed the gum arabic and the rice powder. They practiced Danish on one another, laughing when some thought could not be conveyed in the strange tongue, lapsing into English often.
Alice was not so lonely in Copenhagen as Caroline had feared. She walked through the long corridors and up and down the stairways of the great palace, solitary as she had been at Kew; but she had found a friend outside. Caroline had first heard of him in January.
“There I was,” Alice said, “trying to buy a bit of ribbon at this booth, and try as I might I couldn’t make the old woman understand. And then this man came up alongside, little wizened-up fellow, very bowlegged. At home I shouldn’t have looked at him twice, but here he seemed like a friend. He’s English; and he helped me out, knowing the jabber; and he told me that if I ever wanted a proper cup of tea I could go to his place.”
“Who is he, Alice?” Caroline asked, feeling a responsibility toward the girl whose isolation might have led her to make a dubious contact.
“He’s all right,” Alice, instantly responsive to the concern, assured her. “Name of Smith. William. He worked for Sir William Craven at Newmarket and he brought over a couple of horses for Count Bernstorff. They had a bad crossing, but they arrived in such good condition—he’s clever with horses—the Count offered him a job. So he stayed and settled in.”
“And do you intend to accept his invitation to drink tea with him?”
“I did. I went today. He’s got a snug little place. I had the best cup of tea I’ve ever had here. What do they do to it? It’s either so weak it can’t waddle out of the pot, or it’s thick.” Crikey! She’d put a foot wrong. Princess Caroline—her Majesty—never criticized or allowed any criticism of anything They did. “I mean...he’s rigged himself up a fireplace and he can boil a kettle over it and he’s got a proper little old brown teapot. I reckon that’s the secret. The silver ones look all right, but there’s nothing like a little old brown teapot for a real cup of tea.”
It seemed to Caroline that Alice went rather often—at least once a week—to taste this tea and presently she ventured to tease her gently. “Alice, are your intentions toward Mr. Smith honorable?”
“No,” Alice said. “Nor his to me. He told me the first time he wasn’t a marrying man and I told him I wasn’t a marrying woman. And he knows that if he ever began to get frisky I’d slap him across the chops.”
Hell and damnation! Calamity! The truth was that Alice had now three languages to manage; the prim English of the Queen’s bedchamber; the Danish, rapidly improving; and the rough-and-ready talk of the streets which was her native tongue—and Smith’s. But Princess Caroline, bless her, so different from anyone else on earth, only laughed at the slip and said, “Poor man! He gets nothing in return for his tea.”
“Only somebody to talk to,” Alice said.
And that was a strictly one-way exchange; Smith told her many things; she told him nothing. And of what he told her she repeated nothing.
Now on this night, late in April, Caroline said, “Alice, I think that I may be with child.”
Smith, in his snug little eyrie had said it could never happen; everybody, he said, tried to make out that the King was normal, but he wasn’t, not by a long shot; not a thing you could talk about to ladies, Smith said, paying tribute to Alice’s deliberately uncomprehending face, but you might well face it, he was touched upstairs and down below as well, get my meaning?
Now Alice said, “Oh!” and stopped brushing for a moment. “Well...if that is so, and you’re happy...I’m happy for you.”
“Nothing could make me happier. Alice, you know—that was what I...we...came here for, really. I had to tell you. I just hope it is true, and that it will be a boy.” Saying that she had a funny little vision, inside her head, of a baby girl, unwanted, a disappointment to everyone. “In any case,” she said firmly, “a baby, to tend and look after. Alice, will that not be delightful? Something to look forward to?”
Alice, who had had her fill of baby-tending between the time she was five and the time she was twelve, seven endless years, said, “Yes. Yes, indeed,” and resumed her brushing.
She told Christian first, when she was sure, and she had what she was certain was the unique experience of seeing somebody jump for joy. It was an expression in general use but how many people ever saw another person literally jump? Christian did. He jumped, and said, “Done it, by God. Done it! Make it a boy and there’ll be no more trouble. My apartments, next door, they’ll be wanted for a nursery. I’ll vacate them. I’ll go back to my old ones. Yes indeed, immediately.”
The older Queen Mother said, “A word in your ear, Matilda. Where is that wretched boy? You must lean down to me since I cannot without him, rear myself up. Listen. Keep the child out of Juliana’s reach. She’ll play grandmother to perfection. But she has ruined two. Christian, a child of eighteen
and Frederick an old man at fourteen. Her doing! I tell you this in case I should die without ever holding my great-grandchild in my arms. And I say it because I have watched you and I think you are too open to what looks like kindness. I assure you, there is no kindness in this world.”
Frau von Plessen said, “If Your Majesty recalls it, I did suggest that the riding on horseback was to be avoided.”
The younger Queen Mother said, “I do congratulate you, Caroline; and I hope that all goes well, for you and the child. You have my good wishes, the good wishes of the whole nation, as soon as they know. And you may need them. There is something about the shape of the Royal Danish head...But I must not frighten you.” The reticence could in itself have been frightening, but Caroline was more puzzled than alarmed. Was Juliana hinting that the shape of Christian’s head was responsible for his eccentricities end that the child might inherit the fault? If so, how explain Prince Frederick who was so intelligent and so well-behaved? On subsequent visits Juliana was more explicit; she thought it only kind to prepare Caroline for a long labor and for a child who might find learning as difficult as Christian had done, for a child not quite perfect in form, like Frederick. “It is in the blood,” she said, ominously. Caroline reflected that her blood, too, was contributing to this baby. Inwardly she was certain that it would be a boy, and like Edward to look at.
Mamma responded to the news with a letter of loving congratulations and a long list of rules to be observed and things to be avoided. Edward wrote warmly, too, and added that he would see Caroline long before the baby was born; he had made his plans to visit Europe in the coming summer, and would probably be in Denmark in September.
With two pleasant things to look forward to, Caroline began to live in the future.