Carême in Brighton — a mystery novel - 14. Chapter 13: A Ruse & Ladies at Tea

.

.

PART V

Spring 1817

Chapter 13: A Ruse & Ladies at Tea

“Ah! my most welcome, thrice-honoured guests.”

Kitchiner had again invited the Club’s doorman to step aside. Redundantly, he stood by the open portal while his employer radiated good cheer on Chef Carême and Lady Morgan.

“As always,” the Doctor continued, “wonderful to have you here at one of my little get-togethers.”

In the vestibule, the doorman had something to do at last, as he could assist with the removal of the guests’ springtime outerwear. He moved off to store them, and Kitchiner, ebullient as ever, led his little party down the hall, chatting brightly. “We’ll be eating later, but I thought you’d both like some time to relax beforehand.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” replied Sydney Morgan. “You are always so considerate.”

“Well, I do what I can to assist.” Kitchiner glanced over his shoulder. “And, Dear Chef Carême, you will have such a long day tomorrow handling the State Dinner for the Grand Duke Nicholas.”

“Yes,” agreed Lady Morgan, “and it’s already been six weeks since our day out at Rottingdean.”

Carême flushed a bit to have his interlude in the dusty light of the windmill spoken about, albeit indirectly. The heat of the accelerated blood settled down below his waist, and all of a sudden, made him adjust his walking carriage to try and conceal the fact.

They arrived at the elevating platform, and the Doctor graciously let his guests board first.

“Third floor, please,” he said into the speaking tube.

As the conveyance jolted to a smooth-but-slow ascent, Kitchiner beamed on Carême. “Speaking of the banquet tomorrow, I cannot express how proud I am to know you’ve decided to include our National Dish on the menu.”

“And it’s your recipe, Doctor,” said Lady Morgan. “I know it will be a sensation at the start of the meal tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes,” agreed Carême. “I have placed François in charge of preparing this himself, and he’s been experimenting and practicing it all week to assure – both himself and I – that every detail will turn out a flawless triumph!”

The lift came to a shuddering stop; they had arrived at their floor.

Once again, Kitchiner showed the way along the corridor back towards the front of the Club. “And incidentally, I’ve just learnt about a corresponding season: how the migratory Streptopelia turtur spend their nesting season – all lovey dovey – on English shores from May the First until the start of October.” He grinned a bit suggestively. “Isn’t that interesting?”

Neither Carême nor Lady Morgan knew exactly how to reply. The Lady had to resort to a banal “Very interesting.”

He stopped the pair before the closed door of one of the private rooms inhabiting this level. “Lady Morgan, if you please, the Chef and I have some foodly matters to discuss. We will join you in the bye and bye.” Kitchiner opened the door, leaning in a bit to maintain his grip on the handle and ushering Lady Morgan in with his free hand.

“But—” is all the novelist was able to get out before the Doctor shut the portal again – but now with her inside the room.

On the move once more, Kitchiner led Carême to the quieter, rear portion of the floor.

The chef queried, “And what matters of food are so private that—”

“None, old boy. I’m afraid it’s a ruse.” He placed his fingers on a door lever. “And I’m afraid I told Lady Morgan a fib, because I will not be with you.”

After gently guiding the still-puzzled Carême inside, with the Doctor’s face disappearing behind the closing door, the chef turned.

A figure stood up from the neat and tidy bed in the chamber. It was Thomas Daniels.

Without removing his eyes from the excitedly grinning young man, Carême reached behind himself and locked the door.

“What is going on?” the chef asked, smiling as well.

Thomas was wearing youthful stockings and knee-britches; on top, he still wore a warm-weather linen jacket.

“A surprise from the good Doctor,” Thomas said, bashful all of a sudden. “I’m here as a pre-banquet course: an assiette volante – or one of your ‘morsels on the fly,’ as you call hors d’oeuvres—”

The boy could say no more, for Carême strode up, took the teen’s head manfully between his hands and kissed him.

This kiss led to another, deeper one. And was followed by fingers removing the young man’s jacket.

Thomas reciprocated, shucking the chef’s coat off his shoulders but keeping his hands moving across the Frenchman’s flanks to his waistband. A little farther down, and to the front, and the young man felt the excitement he was raising in his mentor.

They stepped out of shoes and went tumbling on the bed. Shirts got pulled off, followed by trouser buttons becoming undone. The kissing grew ever deeper; bare skin came into contact with bare skin.

As for Sydney Morgan, she had turned around to find quite a surprise of her own. For in the pleasant little sitting room made up for luncheon sat Mrs. Fitzherbert.

“Ah, Lady Morgan! Won’t you come join? They’ve laid out a lovely tea for us.”

“Why, yes.” Lady Morgan crossed the room. “It’s an unexpected pleasure.” Part of her comment was directed at a three-shelved satin wood stand of sandwiches, pastry and cake.

Before she sat down, she made sure to say, “You’re looking well. I haven’t seen you in quite a while.”

“Yes; Boxing Day, I suppose. Tea?”

“Yes, please. And we are so beholden to the Doctor’s hospitality.”

Mrs. Fitzherbert poured Lady Morgan a cup of green tea, and gestured to the sugar bowl and cream jug. “Do help yourself.”

“Thank you. I have to say, the baked goods look tempting as well.”

The Prince’s secret wife plucked off the dish of cut cake slices, which she placed on the table between them. “Indeed. Mrs. Lister is always so considerate in everything she does.”

Out of sheer upbringing, both ladies stared at the selection a silent moment. Indecision paid its mute lip-service, the novelist said sheepishly, “Perhaps we should . . . . ”

“Yes.” Mrs. Fitzherbert giggled very sprightly. “Why don’t we?”

Each selected a slice and placed it on their respective plates. Once again, through cozy proximity, the Irish noblewoman noted the large and charming bracelet her tea companion wore. The top of which was oval and encircled with size-matched pearls.

Lady Morgan took a nibble. “Will we be having dinner upstairs?”

“I believe we shall. For the time being, Mrs. Lister arranged for tea down here to keep me ‘out of the way.’ Although, she’s much too polite to say such a thing aloud.”

Sydney Morgan sampled her tea. “And is there any particular reason why today would be different? She’s usually contented as a clam to have us sat around the kitchen table while she bustles about.”

“Ah. Well, there you see – today is different. Doctor Kitchiner arranged for one of the young Pavilion undercooks to be her apprentice for the day.”

“A young man?”

“Why, yes.”

“A certain Thomas Daniels, to be precise . . . ?”

Mrs. Fitzherbert raised a lopsided grin. “That is the young man. You know the lad?”

Lady Morgan deflected by having more of her cake. “You could say that, yes.” The crumbs helped disguise her own grin. “I wonder what spurred,” mused the novelist, “this sudden apprentice day . . . . ”

Mrs. Fitzherbert replied dutifully, “Because, as the Doctor explained, he’s seen quite a marked devotion to his craft from the young man over the last several months, and wouldn’t mind furthering the boy’s career.”

While Lady Morgan sipped her tea again, it gave her mind a moment to consider the devotion Thomas had for Carême was more a matter of the heart than apprenticeship, but in the end, it equalled about the same display of competence. Surely there wasn’t much the London caterer could teach young Master Daniels that Carême didn’t have firm in hand. In fact, Lady Morgan suddenly suspected the master chef had the young man stiff under his educational control at that very moment.

Now the novelist could settle back and enjoy her tea. Being conspiratorial was fun. “Incidentally, do you know if Kitchiner’s young architect friend also came down from London for today’s festivities?”

“Mr. Hardwick, Philip?”

“Yes, that’s the young man.”

“I’m not aware if he could get away,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “But, it’s early still.”

“Well, I do hope he’s able to attend.”

Now it was Mrs. Fitzherbert's turn to feel conspiratorial. “I know what you mean. The good Doctor’s face does light up so whenever Philip enters the room.”

“Yes, it is true.”

“And speaking of architects, I had a chance meeting with William Porden.”

“The designer of the Regent’s stables?”

“The very one. But Lady Morgan, the man and I have more of an immediate relationship than that . . . he designed my house!”

“Your home in Brighton?”

“Yes, on Castle Square, just a stone’s throw from the Pavilion.”

“How very interesting.”

“Porden made plans for the Pavilion too, but George rejected his idea for a Chinese exterior. I think he was quite right to approve Nash’s Indian-inspired re-design. And quite ironically, Nash was inspired by Porden’s Mogul style for the stables. Sometimes it can be quite a paradoxical old world.”

“I quite agree, Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

“Please do call me Maria Anne – or, ‘Fitzy’ like the Prince.”

Lady Morgan shed a warm smile. “Then you should call me Sydney if you like, Fitzy.”

The women laughed and moved on to the plate of buttered sandwiches.

“But I do like working with John Nash,” said the Regent’s wife. “He’s such a straight-forward soul, but polite, and a genius. And he wears his genius as lightly as some men wear a riding coat, yet the ideas come from a profound, apparently bottomless source.”

Morgan attempted not to sound too interested. “And, have you been working with Mr. Nash?”

“Well – I’m sure I can tell you,” said Fitzy like she’d been caught with her hand in the biscuit barrel. “You see, George is planning new private quarters for himself, on the ground floor by the Music Room. And the Prince has devised – with Nash’s help – a secret staircase from his bedroom up to the floor above.”

“Oh, my goodness. Secret passages; how intriguing. But why?”

Mrs. Fitzherbert proceeded to blush like a girl of seventeen. “Because, above his bedroom, I will have my own private quarters for occasional, shall we say, dark-hour use.”

Sydney was stunned. “But how will you ever get into the palace in the first place?”

“Ah, see, here the good Doctor’s good egises come into play, for he’s directed Nash to provide an underground service tunnel running from the new block development on the south-east border of the property, all the way under the east lawn, and around to the north cellar of the Pavilion – the location of the Regent’s new suite.”

“How extraordinary.” A sudden pang in her heart had Lady Morgan realizing how difficult it was for Mrs. Fitzherbert to live in Castle Square – a stone’s throw away – and yet, despite the closeness, never be able to stroll across the plaza and see him in his home. What a painful situation for man and wife to endure.

The Irish woman’s eyes must have been lingering on her companion’s bracelet.

Tenderly, Mrs. Fitzherbert asked, “Would you like to see inside?”

“Oh. I didn’t know it opened up. A locket?”

“A miniature painting.” She popped a small clasp on one long side. The lid hinged open.

Lady Morgan was expecting by the term ‘miniature’ to see a portrait, but instead found herself regarding only a person’s eye and eyebrow.

“It’s a gift from George,” the bracelet’s owner explained. “He said whenever I’m feeling lonely, lost or isolated in the world, to look him in the eye and know I am loved.” She regarded it now, moving it closer to her sad smile. “Window to the soul, as they say.”

Mrs. Fitzherbert gathered herself, slipping off the bracelet and giving it to Lady Morgan so she could inspect it at her leisure. She continued in a brighter tone, “It quite humbles me really – all the fuss and expense of a tunnel and secret stairs and two suites – but on the other hand, few are the tokens of love that could possibly signal a greater devotion.” She took a sip of her tea with relative calm.

Internally, the lady-novelist heart of Sydney Morgan could not have agreed more sympathetically than it did. She was touched by the tragic nature of it all, for both George and Maria Anne were so faithful and yet forced by the nameless, heartless “State” to live in secret, always fearful of a knock on the door.

It also caused Lady Morgan to realize the depth of importance Doctor Kitchiner’s involvement played. He facilitated their happiness in a literal, tangible way.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

Although only removed from the polite ladies at tea by a few dozen feet, Thomas and Antonin Carême might have been on the other side of the world. They lay atop the sheets of a dishevelled bed in the cozy security of one another’s arms. Eventually their post-lovemaking languor gave way to a revitalized connectedness.

Carême sat up, using the headboard to support his back, and invited the young man to re-settle his head against the man’s chest, which Thomas did eagerly.

Thomas chuckled without warning and lifted his light eyes to his mentor. “The good Doctor may not look much like Cupid, but he can play one shure when called upon.”

Carême smiled. “No matter how good he is, if I had the choice, I’d rather see you in pair of wings and diapers.”

Thomas, youth that he was, twisted involuntarily as he convulsed in laughter, hugging his lover even tighter. To Carême’s ears, the silvery tones were like high scudders blowing threatening clouds away.

Once the boy settled down again, Carême’s smile only grew larger. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell it, but Lady Morgan has a special name for you and all your cohorts in the Pavilion’s kitchens.”

“What is it . . . ?”

“She says you are all ‘chuckleheads’.”

Thomas’ blank expression raised into a grin. “And you, I’m sure you defended my honour, right?”

Carême shrugged, caught red-handed. “I may have agreed that in French we have an equivalent term.”

“Which is?”

“Tete de linotte.”

Thomas mouthed the unfamiliar sounds. “Tete – that’s head, correct?”

“Oui.”

“And – Lee – Nooo—”

“Linotte – that is, lee-Note.”

“Tete de linotte.” Thomas was proud of his mastery of the new phrase, but then scowled. “What’s a linotte?”

“It’s a particular, chattering, laughing bird. Perhaps in English it is similar.”

“A linnet, I guess. They’re noisy. So, a ‘Linnet Head’ in French is a chucklehead in English.”

Carême bent forward to kiss the boy’s flushing ruby lips; he could not resist. “You look so endearing speaking French in your English way. But if you come to Paris, you must learn to speak it in their accent.”

“Oh”—a light went off behind the young man’s eyes—“like the French capital’s version of Cockney English. How would they say it in their dialect?”

“I’d say tête de lee-note, like I taught you, but in Paris, they’d say tête de lee-nut, and really bite off the Nut at the end.”

Thomas tried it a few times: “tête de lee-nut; tête de lee-nut; tête de lee-nut.”

“Oui.” Carême was impressed. “You pick up the sounds quickly. You would learn French rapidly if you lived there.”

“In Paris?” Thomas was suggestive, not needing to state the obvious ‘with you’ part of the question.

Carême grew uncomfortable, only responding to the above-water portion of the query. “In Paris, or Dijon, or Orleans – anywhere.”

Perhaps this small break in their connection caused Thomas to pull himself upright.

He sat against the headboard next to Carême and sobered his tone. “The next few days, they’ll be hell in the kitchens. State banquets require everyone to function to their highest level.”

“That they do. However, each one in the Pavilion knows what they need to do and who to report to. We are well positioned to win the battle.”

“Battle positions – that’s what it’s like. Equivalent to our guest’s strategy in the Wars. Nicholas was good pursuing Napoleon every mile back to Paris from Moscow.”

“Don’t let François hear you say Grand Duke Nicholas was good at anything.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s no secret monsieur Distré hates him. He loathes him as a cock-strutting boor who . . . . Well, the maître d’hôtel has a pronounced dislike for brass and braid.”

Thomas was struck. “Yes. All military ‘glory’ is vainglory if weighed against the human misery it took to achieve.”

“Vainglory . . . ” Carême mumbled.

“What’s that?”

“I said, vainglory,” repeated the chef. “I keep my politics to myself, but to think Russian and England will be the two Empires to shape the course of the world over the next hundred years – quite frankly, it makes me shiver for the fate of la libertè.”

“Well, forgive me, but ‘the next hundred years’ is too large a timescale for me to think about.” The young man attempted a chuckle. “I still have the next few days to get through. And then there are thoughts of what happens, as we say, after the ball.”

“What do you mean? Your position at the Pavilion is secure.”

“Yes, true, but I won’t be there all my life. Is that all my future might hold?” He suddenly picked up Carême’s hand and interlaced their fingers.

“Perhaps,” Carême suggested, “going to London and working with Mrs. Lister would be good for you. You can take what you’ve learned and improve her business, and I know you’ll continue to grow. I myself learned the most from monsieur Bailly during my catering days in Paris.”

The boy was quiet, merely playing with the man’s fingers. His ‘future,’ but what kind could the chef and lad possibly have of one together . . . ? Right now, it was not possible.

“But after this week,” Carême said, “things will go back to normal.”

Thomas held his eyes. “After today, you mean, things will go back to your normal.”

Thomas referred, of course, to François, and Carême could not deny it. Instead, he raised his arm and placed it across the young man’s back and shoulders. He slowly drew Thomas close to him again.

Carême spoke very softly, “The Doctor was talking about turtle doves. They fly all the way from North Africa to find safe nesting spots on English soil. With you in my arms, Thomas, the Doctor has provided a cozy nesting place for us on his personal shores.”

The boy closed his eyes. Their lips met, and in quick succession, first touch turned into impassioned embrace. Mouths opened, essences flowed as tongues mingled with breaths grew choppy and fevered.

In one deft motion, Carême took ahold of the willing young man’s waist and laid him flat on the bed.

Like a cunning feline hunter, the man pulled Thomas down towards him so the lad’s backside pressed against the chef’s thighs. Then, hand behind each knee, he lifted the boy’s legs in the air, letting the tip of his erection come into contact with the boy’s portal.

Thomas moaned, using spit from his mouth to moisten the insistent head of his mentor. Inside, he was relaxed though, delighting in the internal feel of the chef’s earlier anointing.

Carême entered him, holding the boy’s eyes as Thomas’ expression went from a sad one to another teetering on pain and ecstasy.

The young man lifted his hands to behind his lover’s head, saying, poignant with emotion, “I’ve longed for this; too many eyes at the Pavil—”

Carême sunk in, delighting too at how silky smooth the boy’s passage felt with his initial loving still making Thomas all his.

As he pulled back, settling into a primal rhythm melding the lovemaking souls of the men together, Carême had a wicked thought. He unwillingly saw François and Brigitte in their trysting – flesh enflamed and rubbing together – under the exposed framework of the onion dome; on rooftops, beneath the shadows of the colonettes; over the handrails at the top of the Water Tower.

They never had trouble finding out of the way places in the Pavilion, away from prying eyes.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

That very minute, unbeknownst to Carême – but perhaps intuitively felt – the French maid was ensconced in her duties at the Prince Regent’s seaside home, the very place the chef had abandoned François in favour of Ser Cupid’s hospitality and an unexpected liaison with Thomas Daniels.

Yet, with typical Gallic efficiency, Brigitte worked through determined mental steps to “prepare things,” as ordered. For not more than twenty minutes previous, the Royal coach from Claremont House had deposited the maid and her mistress on the back steps of the marine villa.

From this hush-hush point of discretion, the Princess informed her servant she had a pre-arranged appointment to attend to, and called upon the Butler to hail her a cab.

All of this was done without Brigitte having the least chance to enquire after details. Therefore, the neglected companion maid bustled about her tasks with hot speed, relishing the moment the noisome chores would be at an end and she could fly to François’ side. She imagined how she’d inform the handsome man of Brigitte’s return.

Meanwhile, being of sound mind – and a body well rested from the cloying pleasures of Brighton – a figure made her way unescorted through the empty spaces of the Club; she headed instinctively towards the private air of Kitchiner’s pent-house.

Mrs. Lister was already there, half-facing a hot burner of the very Good Doctor’s sauce stove. Knackered from preparation work for the day’s Club dinner, and taxed by a pair of promised helping-hands never showing up, she became lost in considerations.

Now, taking the moment of stillness to heat water for her own tea, she stared at the warmed teapot and meditatively chewed over the rounds of Scotch shortbread spread on a plate.

‘House of intrigue,’ she mused, imagining the goings-on behind each of Kitchiner’s closed doors and shuttered windows. The Doctor’s Brighton base of operations was a world unto itself. And the woman suddenly realized it was not exactly fair to say her assistant for the day never showed up. But on the undercook’s arrival from the Pavilion, Kitchiner had whisked him away – before the lad even had a chance to peg his cap, or switch his street clothes for chefly whites.

Then there had been the rigmarole of orchestrating “a private” tea-service for Mrs. Fitzherbert and Lady Morgan.

The kettle began its rumble towards a steady simmer, masking fainter sounds coming from behind the caterer. As she took it up and filled her teapot, Lister wondered what the Prince’s wife and Irish novelist could possibly find to talk about. She laughed.

“House of intrigue, indeed!”

But while she thought these things, she’d failed to recognize Charlotte’s calling to her as the Princess strode through the penthouse.

Consequently, Elizabeth turned and was surprised to find the Royal standing on the other side of the communal table, peeling off her long white travelling gloves.

“Sorry to have given you a start, Dear Lister, but you didn’t seem to hear me singing out as I approached.”

The Princess was also clad in a dark riding cowl, still dusty from errant road dirt that had somehow made its way into the coach.

The caterer flustered a hand. “My, I am a silly goose. Why, lost to my own ruminations that way, I wouldn’t even hear an army sneaking up. Pardon.” She began a stiff curtsey.

“Oh, no! No need for that. Remember the Doctor’s rules: under this roof, we are merely a collection of old friends, gathered to our own equal society.”

Charlotte disrobed her riding mantle and plopped it on a chair before plunking herself down upon it.

Lister explained, as she trundled over to fetch another cup and saucer from the Welsh dresser, “I was just about to sit to tea. Your timing could not have been more perfect.”

Elizabeth placed items on the table within easy reach of her Royal guest: sugar bowl, creamer, teapot, and the dish of shortbread.

The London caterer poured the Princess a cup of the steaming infusion. “We were expecting your company a little later on.”

“Yes, I escaped. As soon as the hideously long coach ride from Claremont House ended, I left my maid, and here I am!” She stirred in lumps of sugar, several at a time.

“Prince Leopold—”

“Is travelling separately, with his Private Secretary. They are getting a delayed start from Mayfair, where affairs detained him last night. They’re not expected till suppertime.”

“I see. And Brigitte knows nothing, concerning the Club?”

“Heavens, no! That’s a family matter, as well you know.” Charlotte sipped her tea, eyes noticeably inspecting the biscuits. “Speaking of supper, the Prince Consort and I are eagerly looking forward to renewing our eating customs in Brighton. Carême ever and always arranges the most delectable – and appropriate, or so he tells me – post-supper puddings!”

Elizabeth added a little cream to her own cup. Moving her spoon about, she relayed, “Well, you’ll be able to thank Carême in person soon enough. He’s already in the Club somewhere.”

“Oh, yes? Where?”

“I shouldn’t tell tales out of school”—Lister grinned—“for I do not know for sure, but presumably the Good Doctor has him holed up in some private study, poring over Kitchiner’s manuscript for his cookery exposé.”

“Oh, dear!” Charlotte laughed, very ladylike. “Such intelligence makes me glad to have a few, quiet moments just to think, sip tea, and”—her eyes alighted on the buttery treats—“engage in less weighty discourses.”

Did Elizabeth Lister, London caterer and spy extraordinaire, dare risk speaking frankly? She did. Picking up the serving dish and offering the Princess a piece of shortbread, she said, “Honestly, me as well. The Doctor’s drive for culinary perfection can sometimes be wearing.”

Charlotte lifted her selected biscuit. “I can imagine, especially on you, as he relies upon your years of expert service to coax his cerebral considerations towards matters more practical.”

“Maybe so, but in that regard, Chef Carême outranks me decidedly.” She topped off the Princess’ cup. “So I’ll leave them to it.”

“Quite correct.” Charlotte Augusta of Wales finally took a bite. As she chewed, with Lister following suit with her own morsel, the Princess sank through degrees to a more reflective state of mind. Eventually, she lowered her hand, saying, “Dear Mrs. Lister, I would like to offer sincere apology – for what I said.”

The face muscles of the caterer went slack. She did not know what the Princess meant.

Sensing clarification was needed, Charlotte added, “That one time we were having dinner here and . . . well, I intimated that women who worked in business were somehow – dare I repeat it – deceptive. For that, I am sorry.”

Lister insisted, “It’s not necessary—”

The Princess interrupted with a frown. “It is. It’s something that’s been on my mind. Ofttimes, in reflection, the extent of my sheltered isolation from life comes to me. I hope you do forgive me, because I am sorry for being a beastly boor that day.”

Elizabeth was touched by the young woman’s sincerity. “Forgiven,” the caterer intoned as a fetching blush stole across her face. “To be transparent about the matter, Princess, I didn’t necessarily start out seeking to be a ‘woman of business.’ At one time, I harboured quite different ambitions.”

“Oh, yes?”

She nodded. “You see, I had a beau, and once contemplated marriage and motherhood with him.”

“What happened?”

“What happened . . . ? He proved himself to be anything but . . . constant.”

“Oh.” Charlotte angled her lower arms against the tabletop, drawing herself closer to the more mature woman. The Princess’ pitch also dropped as she said, “Some men never seem to learn the world is not their oyster; never learn they cannot rely on status to shield their infidelities from societal view.”

Did it strike the Royal, just at that moment, how her words might have unconsciously been directed towards Leopold as well? An observer – say in the form of one Mrs. Lister – could not be sure. But keen observation did regard Charlotte stiffen at that precise moment, set her shortbread down, and fall back into her chair. The slightest bit of colour rouged her young cheeks.

Elizabeth acted like she hadn’t seen a thing, returning to the topic of fellows at large. “Oh, you are so right. Some men can never seem content with happiness, always stirring the pot, knowingly or not, to bring threats of danger to their domestic arrangements. It makes one wonder what is on their minds.”

Charlotte let loose with a remarkably un-princessly chortle. It continued to hang hoarsely in the air as she said, “My Dear Mrs. Lister – I think we both know what that one thing is!”

Communal laughter followed. Both women pulled up and tucked into their collation with gusto.

“Oh, Princess! I feel truly blessed to know you like this. As beloved as you are, if people could see your inner sparkle and wit – why, they’d only treasure you all the more.”

Far from taking the comment in stride, Charlotte’s countenance grew sad. “I am beloved while my father – Dear Pa-Pa – is . . . not.”

“Princess; pardon. I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know you didn’t intend the comparison, but I often feel the unhappiness it must bring to him. However”—a newly honed edge crept upon her resonance—“they do not know him. He would be beloved too if ordinary subjects knew of the hard-choice reforms he’s working on behind the scenes. Reforms that will make people freer of both the Peerage and the spying abuses of Whitehall.”

Lister responded viscerally. She commented with a tear in her eye, “The people have those hopes for you, Princess. Few Royals have been invested with a nation’s aspirations as you are.”

Though intending to have no such results, the London caterer’s words set Charlotte to considering how loved the Princess’ offspring would also be, certainly when they were infants.

The young woman longed to be a parent, but the notion also held dread for her. She had no direct experience of mothering in her childhood, growing up lonely, separated from the girl’s Danish Princess ma-ma for “political reasons.” Her Grand Pa-Pa schemed to ram an illegal Act through Parliament to pretend Prince George was not already married. After Charlotte’s birth, George drove her mother back to Denmark. What person would want their illicit ‘wife’ around them once her role as child-bearer had been fulfilled?

But Charlotte had suffered. And this suffering explained the young woman’s “tolerance” of her father’s arrangements with Mrs. Fitzherbert.

Yes, knowing her own bastard status was not entirely un-useful to the Head of State in training.

It was through such training she’d gained great confidence in herself.

And yet . . . she had so far failed to produce an heir. Politically speaking, she knew the incompletion of her rôle left her vulnerable.

She reached out to the woman across the table for understanding.

“I suppose you want to know,” Charlotte began tentatively, “how things fare with me since . . . since I lost the baby.”

Touched deeply, near the heart of Elizabeth’s own womanhood, Mrs. Lister nodded gently.

“Well, I’ll confess to being worried: it was not the first.”

Into Lister’s pall of silence, Charlotte inserted a sputtering glibness. “Come now; it isn’t all bad news. And according to my Palace-appointed physician at Claremont House, I remain ‘Fit and Able’ to throw a whole stable-full of princely brats – just like Dear Grand Ma-Ma did.”

The caterer instinctively drew her apron hem to her mouth, attempting to shield her smile. But in the end, the action proved fruitless, as the laughing sparkle in the woman’s eyes prompted Charlotte to giggle at the Princess’ own ‘wickedness.’

Then, linking hands once more, both let loose with unguarded, sisterly laughter.

When she had sufficient breath, Charlotte hastened to add, “Of course, horrid old Doctor Hogarth didn’t put it in exactly those words, but his meaning was nevertheless exactly the same!”

Rocked back on their chairs, Elizabeth blurted: “God bless you, Princess. You have a truly fine disposition.”

Meanwhile, with the London caterer hardly noticing it, Charlotte had refilled the woman’s teacup. After this, Charlotte suddenly reached for one of her gloves. Her eyes had filled with tears.

“Oh, Princess,” Elizabeth uttered in muted tones, “bear up. Be brave.”

“I am, Dear Lister; I am to both. And yet, until I have a child, I’ll somehow feel less of a person.”

“You are still young! You have the rest of your life ahead of you. Doctor Hogarth will undoubtedly prove right about you and your litter of princely pups.”

“I also worry about Leopold losing interest in me—”

“I wouldn’t!”

“And I worry about the State, for the sooner I bear an heir, the quicker my amoral uncles recede into the background as irrelevant. There they can continue their lives of quiet dissipation in quiet non-contemplation. That of course, Dear Lister, is best for England, as well as the U.K. and rest of our Empire abroad.”

Elizabeth replied with a heartfelt, though soft, “Amen.”

And of course, Elizabeth Lister, caterer spy, was correct, although she lacked in the proper understanding of just how determined Charlotte Augusta of Wales was. For, trusting in herself to a high degree, she’d move heaven and earth to prevent one of her unworthy uncles from ascending to the seat of Saint Edward’s throne.

A deep-seated part of Charlotte understood she was England’s only hope. And she felt it about herself as devoutly as any one of the grubby-faced subjects genuflecting before her on one of Leopold’s public ambles.

_