Lies, Damned Lies, and History(4)

On my left, his legal wife, Caroline Amelia Elizabeth of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel. Fat. Highly strung – all right, mad. Hysterical. Demanding. Bossy. Unhygienic. Promiscuous. Loud.

Really, you could argue that by taking each other out of circulation, they’d done the world a favour.

Anyway, the marriage was a catastrophe even by royal standards, where the bar is set pretty high for catastrophe. Apparently, George was blind drunk for three days before his wedding and spent his wedding night passed out in the fireplace where, according to her version of events, his new wife left him to lie. Rumour had it that this was the only night they ever spent together. Since nine months later Caroline gave birth to a baby girl, we can only assume he had the most determined sperm in the history of … well, sperm.

Anyway, on the death of his father, mad George III – the one who mistook a tree for the King of Prussia (easy mistake to make I should think) and peed blue urine – George ascended the throne. His wife turned up for the coronation and had the doors of Westminster Abbey slammed in her face.

And that’s what you’re stuck with if you’re a pregnant historian.

Everyone else was off to record the History-changing Battle of the Teutoburg and I get bloody Caroline of bloody Brunswick. I said as much to Leon, whose fault all this was.

‘I blame you,’ I said. ‘It’s your incessant demand for sex that has saddled me with the Daft Bat of Brunswick.’

‘Really?’ he said, maddeningly unmoved by my plight. ‘I don’t remember any objections. In fact, I seem to remember you being hugely enthusiastic at the time. You did the thing with the … you know.’

‘Yes, never mind that now,’ I said hastily. The only way to deal with embarrassing truths is to ignore them. Like a politician. ‘The fact is that I’m off to 19th-century London to watch a bunch of fat Germans shouting at each other, and I’m going to miss one of the most important events in History.’

‘That was the deal,’ he said, mildly. ‘You can continue jumping but only the quieter jumps. I seem to remember it being your idea.’

‘Yes, but only because the other option was no jumps at all.’

‘Which we can easily implement, if you’re unhappy with the current arrangement.’

I sighed. ‘No, it’s fine.’

‘You sure?’ he said, suddenly anxious.

I felt my usual pang of conscience. Poor Leon. He never complains, but things aren’t easy for him, sometimes.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, suddenly aware that it was.





Chapter Two

Although he succeeded his father in January of 1820, George’s coronation wasn’t held until 19th July the following year. It took him that long to plan it. I might have forgotten to mention he was vain as well. He wanted the biggest, most badass coronation ever. Bigger even than Napoleon’s – and he was an emperor.

The sums he spent were colossal. Parliament voted him £100,000 – which is a lot of money even today – and then, when it was obvious that even that sum wasn’t going to be anything like enough, another £138,000. A total of about £9.5 million in today’s terms. He commissioned a new crown, rejecting the traditional crown of King Edward. He even acquired the Hope Diamond, previously looted from the French Crown Jewels. You only have to look at the Brighton Pavilion – George’s modest little seaside residence – to see he didn’t do things by halves. Sadly for him, despite all his best efforts, the one thing his coronation would be famous for was not the spectacle, or the extravagance, or even his gorgeous self – it would be for his wife, the ghastly Caroline of Brunswick, who would steal the show. And for all the wrong reasons.

The 19th July was a hot day. Just for once, however, fashion worked in the female favour. I wore a pretty summer bonnet, which I tied rather racily under one ear, and a high-waisted walking dress of light blue silk. Since I wasn’t a young girl, I had sleeves and only a moderate number of flounces. The material was light and comfortable. No corsets were involved in any way.

Markham, on the other hand, was trussed up like a turkey in a dark green long-tailed coat and an exotically embroidered waistcoat. He wore an intricately knotted cravat that pushed up his chin for that authentic ‘staring down your nose at the peasants’ look, tight breeches, and boots. He was hot before we even started. I tried not to feel smug.

We met in Hawking Hangar, outside Pod Eight, my favourite. Yes, it was looking a little battered these days, but weren’t we all?

Pods are our centres of operation; they’re solid, apparently stone-built shacks, which jump us back to whichever time period we’ve been assigned. They’re cramped, squalid and the toilet never works properly. Number Eight smelled as it always did – of stale people, overloaded electrics, unstable plumbing, musty carpet, and cabbage.