George regarded her coolly. “Why should I grant such a request? The girl is of no particular importance.”
The question was blunt and not at all softened by courtesy, and Caroline knew better than to pretend otherwise.She is of particular importance to me.She met his gaze squarely.
“For the child’s welfare,” she said. “She has lost everything familiar to her. To uproot her further—to send her away among strangers who will see her only as an inconvenience or an asset—would be cruel.”
He laughed softly. “You speak as though sentiment were sufficient cause.”
“No,” Caroline replied. “I speak as someone who knows what it is to be separated from a child.”
That gave him pause—not out of sympathy, but calculation.
“She has a family,” he said at length. “They may object.”
“They may,” Caroline agreed. “But physical custody is not the same as legal claim. I do not seek adoption. I seek permission to raise her—to give her stability until she reaches her majority.”
“And what,” he asked, leaning back in his chair, “do I gain by this arrangement?”
Caroline did not pretend surprise. “Control,” she said honestly. “Oversight. The assurance that the child is raised properly, under conditions you approve. I will accept any terms you impose.”
George studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. At last he smiled—a thin, satisfied smile that chilled her.
“I will make enquiries,” he said. “Should it prove convenient, I may be persuaded.”
Caroline inclined her head. She did not thank him. Gratitude would imply generosity, and this was not that.
She left Carlton House knowing precisely what she had traded. By granting her request—if he did—George would bind her more tightly to his will. He would have another lever with which to move her, another means of punishment should she displease him. He could remove Elizabeth as easily as he had removed Charlotte.
Caroline understood this fully. She did not care.
That evening, she sat alone at Blackheath, hands folded tightly in her lap and allowed herself at last to grieve Rebecca properly. For the woman she had loved as a sister and for her life that had ended too abruptly. For the fragile hope now suspended upon the whim of a man who had never known mercy for its own sake.
I will endure whatever price he names,she thought.I only want Elizabeth.
And if love, she had learned, was always contingent under George’s rule, then she would accept contingency. She would accept fear. She would accept the knowledge that nothing she held was ever truly hers.
Better that than emptiness. Better that than silence.
George IV was no fool. He knew a golden opportunity when one was presented. His unwanted wife had, for the last two years, stayed out of his way. Her complaints of ill-use had been minimal, and she had lived within her allowance. This, he rightly attributed, was due to her friendship with Rebecca de Bourgh. He had never understood his friend Nathan’s obsession with the chit, pretty though she was.
Now they were both gone. Pity, that. Nathan had been a useful sort of companion. Never had birth mattered to the Prince of Wales. More important to relationships was what an acquaintance or friend could offer him.
Nathan de Bourgh had offeredease. He asked little, listened well, and possessed the rare talent of never correcting George when others might have bristled at the prince’s excesses or opinions. Nathan laughed when laughter was required, admired without envy, and—most valuable of all—kept his counsel. He had been discreet in matters where discretion was essential and obliging in matters where money or influence smoothed difficulties best left unremarked. Nathan knew which debts were spoken of and which were to be quietly settled; which companions were tolerable and which were to be endured only briefly. He had been, in short, a man who understood how to exist in George’s orbit without demanding more than was prudent. That his birth was modest mattered not at all. Usefulness, George had long decided, was a far superior qualification.
The child, then. Elizabeth de Bourgh.
George leaned back in his chair and considered the matter with interest rather than sentiment. Children were not creatures of affection so much as instruments—future ones, certainly, but instruments all the same. The girl was young, impressionable, and conveniently unattached now that her parents were gone. She could be made grateful. Loyal. Dependent. And through her, Caroline could be bound more tightly than by any direct command.
It pleased him how neatly the pieces arranged themselves. By granting Caroline custody—physicalcustody only—he could appear magnanimous without relinquishing an ounce of authority. The arrangement would be framed as charity, as concern for the welfare of an orphaned child. It wouldwin him quiet approval and cost him nothing. And if Caroline overstepped, complained too loudly, or presumed upon indulgence, it would be the simplest thing in the world to remove the girl to Carlton House. No scandal. No public cruelty. Merely an administrative correction.
An easy leash,he thought with satisfaction.
There were other advantages, too. Charlotte required companions. A princess raised in isolation was an inconvenience later, prone to attachments formed too fiercely and opinions developed without moderation. Another child—well-born enough, properly guided—would serve admirably. Elizabeth might amuse Charlotte, soften her, teach her to share attention. And should the child prove useful beyond that—well, usefulness was not limited to a single purpose.
George smiled faintly. Caroline believed herself victorious already. How touching.
He rose and crossed to his writing desk, the decision made. Ink and paper were summoned. Instructions followed swiftly, precisely, his hand steady as he penned two summonses—one to Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s widow, informing her that enquiries would be made regarding the disposition of the child, and another to Mr. Thomas Bennet, Esq., of Longbourn, Hertfordshire, whose interest in the matter would likewise be required.
All would be done properly. Publicly.Benevolently.
